Celebrate Smart Bitches and the bitches that love them, with...
Salomé!
and
Lyvvie!
and
Sandy!
and
Kate! whose meme I shall do because it's quick and easy and fun.
List and describe three of your favorite books that other people might not be familiar with.
With the disclaimer that the words "favorite" and "books" don't go together. Unless accompanied by "some of" or a similar qualifier. I mean come on, people, gimme a break.
1. A Gesture Life, by Chang-Rae Lee. It's about a lot of things, but mostly about the main character's war experience (tending to the medical needs of Japanese comfort women, of whom Japan still seems to have difficulty admitting the existence) and the effect it has on his life and personality. It reads as a small, personal story - not some epic thing, not an anguished war chronicle. It's a very pensive, interior character, and I identified strongly with him in a lot of ways. It's very well written and thoughtful and touching and just stark enough in all the right places, with shades of sentimentality in all the other right places. I love this book, love nearly everything it says.
2. Les Aurores Montréales, by Monique Proulx and hey look - they have it translated to English: Aurora Montrealis. I can't vouch for the translation because I've only read it en français, but I'd say it was worth a $10 gamble on the English version. It's short stories, all set in Montréal. The one that really stuck out was called "Léa et Paul, par exemple" - scenes from a love affair, arranged out of chronological order. It's like the pieces of a puzzle coming together, and it - like so many of the stories - made me think and think and think, turning everything over in my head and searching out new aspects to help me understand what it was all about. Between the subtle complexities of the stories and the somewhat advanced québecois french, my head damn near exploded, I tell ye. And yet I loved every minute of it.
3. An Only Child, by Frank O'Connor. This is Frank O'Connor's autobiography (or at least the first half of it) and if you don't know who Frank O'Connor is, well then stop everything and go find out because you are SERIOUSLY missing out on some fantastic writing. He's fookin brilliant and I'd give more than one limb to write as well as he did. I felt such a rush of love and kinship reading his autobiography, though, that it's the thing that's stuck in my mind as my favorite of his. (Okay, "Guests of the Nation" too - just try getting that one off my list of Best-Evers, hah.) He's funny and genuine and smart and eloquent and terrific, and also dead or else I'd shamelessly be throwing myself at his feet offering to have his babies.
I supposably have to tag 5 people, but I ain't gonna. You go ahead and give 3 somewhat obscure-ish books in the comments, if you will, please. Or not.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Monday, May 14, 2007
Hello hello hello it's Smart Bitches Day and I'm not promising much because I feel weird. An odd lightheaded-ish thing. My guess is it's a combo of feeling allergy-sleepy all day, then working out w/o keeping an eye on my heartrate which was probly way to high, then bolting down dinner (and a beer) and the heightened suspense from watching tonight's episode of Heroes, also known as The Show That Will Insist On Making Me Watch Skulls Being Sliced Open And Eww But I Can't Stop Watching Because OMG Ando-san BE CAREFUL AHHHHHHH.
Anyway. Celebrate it with
Lyvvie!
and
jmc!
and
Suisan!
and me, if I last.
These Old Shades, by Georgette Heyer
So ages upon ages ago, I was reading some message board(s) and book review(s) about Heyer books - this was long before I'd actually read any and was trying to get an idea of where to start - and I kept hearing all over the place how totally! awesome! this book is. Except it's really hard to find, out of print, sells for like $50 for a paperback if you can find it, yadida yadida masterpiece blah. I wanted to read it, of course, but no way am I paying more than $6 for a paperback, I don't care how damn fantabulous it is.
Then lo and behold, I find it at Amazon Marketplace for $6. Used, but worth it to see what all the fuss is about. I bother so that you don't have to. All part of the service, ma'am.
Allow me to inform you that the fuss is about an unbearably annoying heroine, a hero who is about as attractive as a freshly pickled toad, a typically delightful supporting cast, and a cracking good plot. The sad news is that, for me, the good things don't overwhelm the bad things.
And please understand that this book had EVERYTHING going for it, right out of the box. The back cover description is just fookin brilliant:
Lovely, titian-haired Léonie, ward of the dashing Duke of Avon, had all Paris at her feet. Yet her true origins remained shrouded in mystery. And neither the glittering soirées nor the young aristocrats who so ardently courted her could still the questions that plagued her young heart.
What was her mysterious parentage? Just one man held the secret, the one she feared most in the world -- the iron-willed Compte de Saint-Vire, deadly enemy of the Duke. He would give her the answer -- for a price. but could she betray the man she secretly, helplessly loved? And could this proud young beauty bear to face the truth when it came?
Okay, listen to me: There is NO PART of that desciption that fails to make this book delicious to me. As Snookie pointed out when I read it to her over the phone: I'd buy it even if I'd never heard its praises sung. I'd buy it if it were flaming shit on a shingle and it came with this brochure, okay? COME ON! Titian-haired! Dashing Duke! Shrouded in mystery! All Paris at her feet! Glittering fuckin soirées, bitch! I live for this shit.
I also assumed, on the basis of the back cover alone, that this Compte de Saint-Vire person would be the dark and mysterious hero. But non. Ce n'est pas l'intrigue. Trop quotidien, one must assume. Ordinaire. Eet eez too obvious, like zee Eenglish prefer, hein? Rather early on, it becomes plain that the Compte cannot and will not ever be the love interest.
HOWEVER. (And I feel the need to scream HOWTHEFUCKEVER.) One would also naturally assume that the Duke is also not the love interest. One would assume it from page one, in fact. Page Number One, where said Duke is mincing along in high heels. Mincing. The Duke.
Mincing.
He also flutters a fan, carries a quizzing glass, is always in possession of a perfumed lace hanky, and oh yeah did I mention that he MINCES ON PAGE ONE?
Okay, obviously this really, really bothers me. It pisses me off, in fact. Because this mincing person IS THE ROMANTIC HERO. And it's not like he goes through some personal journey and the book ends with him never mincing again, okay. He is a purposeful, planned, unapologetic mincer.
I mean, I could get over the fan-fluttering as an ironic device. The quizzing glass and the hanky, like the high-heeled shoes, I could wave away as historically accurate fashion details. Jesus, he could wear a frikken prom gown with tulle and a beaded bodice and I might go for it, but he absolutely CANNOT mince. If you're gonna wear it, dude, you gotta own it. Be it. Don't apologize. And mincing is such an apologetic movement.
Meanwhile, the heroine is semi-delightful, if you can overlook how she's quite clearly the original poster-child for all the Too Stupid To Live heroines in Romance. She's 19 years old and your typical hoydenish minx, pluck to the backbone, unconventional, fiery spirit, yawn, yawn, hell for leather across the moors, et cetera. She can really be pretty cute and clever at times, but mostly she's just an idiot. She inexplicably falls for Sir Mincealot when she first sees him, and stays very firmly in this absurd state of adoration throughout the book, never wavering once. Even though he's a complete asshole. And is 20 years older than her. (And he minces, if I didn't mention it.) The asshole thing is odd, actually - he gives these steely glances and such, but they feel very fake and stilted. But I guess it's hard to mix the joyfully effeminate with the iron-willed manly man schtick without him coming off like a really cheesey villain. Anyway.
The real shame is that the Duke of Mincing has this brother who is absolutely perfect for the titian-haired brat. They get along great, they have tons of fun, and they're fun to watch together. That'd be an awesome story - if Lord Poncy falls for the girl, but she falls for his seemingly worthless brother, and then bang-zoom, fireworks drama tension betrayal and hopefully a duel. (Because if there's anything I love more than a ball, my friends, it's a duel.)
Anyway, it's a shame. For a book whose cover had me clapping my hands with delight, only to send me into paroxysms of joy, as they say, when spotting chapter titles such as Lord Rupert Wins The Second Trick and Lady Fanny's Virtue Is Outraged, it sure has been one disappointing experience. There are 2 things that kept me reading:
(1) the sick fascination of watching an almost-complete trainwreck, and
(2) the plot and the side characters - if not the dreadful romance - are fun.
So I guess that means Heyer really is brilliant, because I kept reading in spite of myself. Any other writer probably wouldn't have managed such pleasing auxiliaries to adequately shore up the insufferable main characters. And if you're a writer and thinking you can do the same, don't kid yourself. There's only one Heyer, and you're not her. Fortunately for us that also means that you won't ever have your romantic hero mince. I hope.
Anyway. Celebrate it with
Lyvvie!
and
jmc!
and
Suisan!
and me, if I last.
These Old Shades, by Georgette Heyer
So ages upon ages ago, I was reading some message board(s) and book review(s) about Heyer books - this was long before I'd actually read any and was trying to get an idea of where to start - and I kept hearing all over the place how totally! awesome! this book is. Except it's really hard to find, out of print, sells for like $50 for a paperback if you can find it, yadida yadida masterpiece blah. I wanted to read it, of course, but no way am I paying more than $6 for a paperback, I don't care how damn fantabulous it is.
Then lo and behold, I find it at Amazon Marketplace for $6. Used, but worth it to see what all the fuss is about. I bother so that you don't have to. All part of the service, ma'am.
Allow me to inform you that the fuss is about an unbearably annoying heroine, a hero who is about as attractive as a freshly pickled toad, a typically delightful supporting cast, and a cracking good plot. The sad news is that, for me, the good things don't overwhelm the bad things.
And please understand that this book had EVERYTHING going for it, right out of the box. The back cover description is just fookin brilliant:
Lovely, titian-haired Léonie, ward of the dashing Duke of Avon, had all Paris at her feet. Yet her true origins remained shrouded in mystery. And neither the glittering soirées nor the young aristocrats who so ardently courted her could still the questions that plagued her young heart.
What was her mysterious parentage? Just one man held the secret, the one she feared most in the world -- the iron-willed Compte de Saint-Vire, deadly enemy of the Duke. He would give her the answer -- for a price. but could she betray the man she secretly, helplessly loved? And could this proud young beauty bear to face the truth when it came?
Okay, listen to me: There is NO PART of that desciption that fails to make this book delicious to me. As Snookie pointed out when I read it to her over the phone: I'd buy it even if I'd never heard its praises sung. I'd buy it if it were flaming shit on a shingle and it came with this brochure, okay? COME ON! Titian-haired! Dashing Duke! Shrouded in mystery! All Paris at her feet! Glittering fuckin soirées, bitch! I live for this shit.
I also assumed, on the basis of the back cover alone, that this Compte de Saint-Vire person would be the dark and mysterious hero. But non. Ce n'est pas l'intrigue. Trop quotidien, one must assume. Ordinaire. Eet eez too obvious, like zee Eenglish prefer, hein? Rather early on, it becomes plain that the Compte cannot and will not ever be the love interest.
HOWEVER. (And I feel the need to scream HOWTHEFUCKEVER.) One would also naturally assume that the Duke is also not the love interest. One would assume it from page one, in fact. Page Number One, where said Duke is mincing along in high heels. Mincing. The Duke.
Mincing.
He also flutters a fan, carries a quizzing glass, is always in possession of a perfumed lace hanky, and oh yeah did I mention that he MINCES ON PAGE ONE?
Okay, obviously this really, really bothers me. It pisses me off, in fact. Because this mincing person IS THE ROMANTIC HERO. And it's not like he goes through some personal journey and the book ends with him never mincing again, okay. He is a purposeful, planned, unapologetic mincer.
I mean, I could get over the fan-fluttering as an ironic device. The quizzing glass and the hanky, like the high-heeled shoes, I could wave away as historically accurate fashion details. Jesus, he could wear a frikken prom gown with tulle and a beaded bodice and I might go for it, but he absolutely CANNOT mince. If you're gonna wear it, dude, you gotta own it. Be it. Don't apologize. And mincing is such an apologetic movement.
Meanwhile, the heroine is semi-delightful, if you can overlook how she's quite clearly the original poster-child for all the Too Stupid To Live heroines in Romance. She's 19 years old and your typical hoydenish minx, pluck to the backbone, unconventional, fiery spirit, yawn, yawn, hell for leather across the moors, et cetera. She can really be pretty cute and clever at times, but mostly she's just an idiot. She inexplicably falls for Sir Mincealot when she first sees him, and stays very firmly in this absurd state of adoration throughout the book, never wavering once. Even though he's a complete asshole. And is 20 years older than her. (And he minces, if I didn't mention it.) The asshole thing is odd, actually - he gives these steely glances and such, but they feel very fake and stilted. But I guess it's hard to mix the joyfully effeminate with the iron-willed manly man schtick without him coming off like a really cheesey villain. Anyway.
The real shame is that the Duke of Mincing has this brother who is absolutely perfect for the titian-haired brat. They get along great, they have tons of fun, and they're fun to watch together. That'd be an awesome story - if Lord Poncy falls for the girl, but she falls for his seemingly worthless brother, and then bang-zoom, fireworks drama tension betrayal and hopefully a duel. (Because if there's anything I love more than a ball, my friends, it's a duel.)
Anyway, it's a shame. For a book whose cover had me clapping my hands with delight, only to send me into paroxysms of joy, as they say, when spotting chapter titles such as Lord Rupert Wins The Second Trick and Lady Fanny's Virtue Is Outraged, it sure has been one disappointing experience. There are 2 things that kept me reading:
(1) the sick fascination of watching an almost-complete trainwreck, and
(2) the plot and the side characters - if not the dreadful romance - are fun.
So I guess that means Heyer really is brilliant, because I kept reading in spite of myself. Any other writer probably wouldn't have managed such pleasing auxiliaries to adequately shore up the insufferable main characters. And if you're a writer and thinking you can do the same, don't kid yourself. There's only one Heyer, and you're not her. Fortunately for us that also means that you won't ever have your romantic hero mince. I hope.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
So tomorrow's Mother's Day. And if you're anything like me, it can be a day of mildly conflicting emotions because you, say for instance, would rather shove white-hot knitting needles in your eyes than to spend a day pretending your mom is the bestest. I admit to feeling a pang when I think of daughters who actually enjoy spending time with their moms. A little jealous of those who, when something interesting or exciting happens in life, can't wait to call mom and let her know. I have friends who are more than happy to spend an afternoon or a weekend or an entire vacation with their mothers. And I wish, sometimes, that I had that in my life.
But the fact is that I don't. And the one thing that comforts me when I think of my estrangement from my mother, is the knowledge that I am not alone. I am not the only one who regards Mother's Day with dread, disappointment, or despondency. For lo! I am not the only one with a less-than-stellar mother figure.
So I propose the Anti-Mother's Day. Or maybe not Anti-. That's a bit harsh. And not entirely accurate. Let's call it Sorry Your Mom Sucks Day.
Does your mom suck? Well, then - celebrate appropriately.
Some suggestions for ways to celebrate:
What do you do if your mom doesn't suck, but you still want to celebrate?
Well, there's a pretty good chance that you know at least one person whose mother sucks. So just send your condolences. In the form of a crappy homemade card!
Like this one:
Or maybe this:
I'd have made more, but the variety of maternal suckage is wide and deep, and I can't hope to address it all with my weak MS Paint skills.
Now I'm off to send these cards to those lovely women who have so generously confided their mom-frustrations with me over the last several months. And if you're a lurker with whose mom-woes I am not acquainted, allow me to wish you a happy Sorry Your Mother Sucks day.
But the fact is that I don't. And the one thing that comforts me when I think of my estrangement from my mother, is the knowledge that I am not alone. I am not the only one who regards Mother's Day with dread, disappointment, or despondency. For lo! I am not the only one with a less-than-stellar mother figure.
So I propose the Anti-Mother's Day. Or maybe not Anti-. That's a bit harsh. And not entirely accurate. Let's call it Sorry Your Mom Sucks Day.
Does your mom suck? Well, then - celebrate appropriately.
Some suggestions for ways to celebrate:
- Instead of visiting, consider sending flowers. Then decide - well, fuck that. What did she ever do to deserve $50 of flowers? Then send her a card, buy the flowers for yourself, and call it a day. Feels good, doesn't it?
- Take yourself to brunch somewhere nice. Make sure you're seated near a family with obviously annoyed adult children entertaining a pinched-lipped older woman who is loudly complaining about the perfectly acceptable server. Eavesdrop on the party. Congratulate yourself for not subjecting yourself to the pain you're overhearing. Treat yourself to an extra danish.
- Sit on the couch (with snacks! and liquor!) and watch the movie you've rented. Feel free to sit really close to the screen and ruin your eyes. The movie should preferably involve lots of senseless gunplay and car chases and should under no circumstances star Sally Field, Julia Roberts or similar.
- Consider taking Monday off and spending the day stocking up on sale candy, perfume, jewelry, and bath products.
- Revel in your lack of a migraine at the end of the day.
What do you do if your mom doesn't suck, but you still want to celebrate?
Well, there's a pretty good chance that you know at least one person whose mother sucks. So just send your condolences. In the form of a crappy homemade card!
Like this one:
Or maybe this:
I'd have made more, but the variety of maternal suckage is wide and deep, and I can't hope to address it all with my weak MS Paint skills.
Now I'm off to send these cards to those lovely women who have so generously confided their mom-frustrations with me over the last several months. And if you're a lurker with whose mom-woes I am not acquainted, allow me to wish you a happy Sorry Your Mother Sucks day.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Yet another really great thing about Snookie is how I can 100% count on her to understand whatever thoroughly irrational emotion I'm feeling. I can (and do) (and did) call her up to say, like, "So I was just really upset, which I guess is understandable, and then I stewed about it for a while and figured out what REALLY was bothering me was that A happened, when I really want B to happen instead. Why does everything have to be A? All I'm asking for here is a little B, for fucksakes. Just give me some hint of B, sheesh."
Snook: "That's a legitimate complaint. I'd feel like that too."
Me: "Right, but THEN - not an HOUR after I realize that I want B instead of A, if I just had that then everything would be okay? Not an hour later, B is served up, fresh and piping-hot. Like magic. And instead of making me happy, it just pisses me off more."
Snook: "Yeah, I totally get that, and here's why..."
This is why females need to stick together: Irrational Emotion Indentification and Commiseration. We utterly baffle ourselves sometimes. Out girlfriends often serve as an investigatory unit. Plus, it's very gratifying on those occassions when a trusted friend says, "No, you should totally be angry. Go ahead. And don't feel bad about it." Hmm.. emphasis on the TRUSTED friend part of that. I mean, there's only one Snookie, after all.
We also talked about friends and making friends and our nearly non-existent social lives and all of that. There are people who can join groups or classes or go to a Tupperware party - whatever - and come away with 10 new friends. Snookie says her husband is one of these people. I am not one of these people. Snookie is not one, either. I mean, say I join some club or another - like a book club or something. I might genuinely like many of the people and enjoy talking to them and have some shared interests, etc. But that doesn't mean I'm at all inclined to spend non-book-club time with them. It just takes a lot more than sorta-mutual interests and a lack of loathing for me to actually hit it off with someone. Liking someone doesn't necessarily mean I want to spend time with them, see.
As Snookie pointed out, a lot of people can make friends that way. And do. Like, they become active in the homeowners association and then someone from said homeowners associaton will say "Hey let's go out sometime" - and they will actually go out. Based entirely on the fact that they're both in the same homeowners association. This is a very foreign concept to me and I find it comforting that Snookie, like me, would instead greet an invitation like that with "Um, no. I don't want to go out with this person I don't know. I am now faced with the awkwardness of the situation." The bottom line is, I suppose, that there are people who (like me and Snooks) are just consciously really highly selective of who they'll spend their time with.
Which made me wonder how she and I got to be friends in the first place, what with this rigorous system in place on both sides. But it's really not that complicated: we worked together, we constantly made each other laugh, we always had something to talk about. We clicked.
I just don't click with many people. Not in a way that makes me want to hang out with most people I meet, anyway. Which is too bad, but I can't change how I am.
In conclusion, I want this bag. But I don't want to pay that much for it. Woe is me.
Snook: "That's a legitimate complaint. I'd feel like that too."
Me: "Right, but THEN - not an HOUR after I realize that I want B instead of A, if I just had that then everything would be okay? Not an hour later, B is served up, fresh and piping-hot. Like magic. And instead of making me happy, it just pisses me off more."
Snook: "Yeah, I totally get that, and here's why..."
This is why females need to stick together: Irrational Emotion Indentification and Commiseration. We utterly baffle ourselves sometimes. Out girlfriends often serve as an investigatory unit. Plus, it's very gratifying on those occassions when a trusted friend says, "No, you should totally be angry. Go ahead. And don't feel bad about it." Hmm.. emphasis on the TRUSTED friend part of that. I mean, there's only one Snookie, after all.
We also talked about friends and making friends and our nearly non-existent social lives and all of that. There are people who can join groups or classes or go to a Tupperware party - whatever - and come away with 10 new friends. Snookie says her husband is one of these people. I am not one of these people. Snookie is not one, either. I mean, say I join some club or another - like a book club or something. I might genuinely like many of the people and enjoy talking to them and have some shared interests, etc. But that doesn't mean I'm at all inclined to spend non-book-club time with them. It just takes a lot more than sorta-mutual interests and a lack of loathing for me to actually hit it off with someone. Liking someone doesn't necessarily mean I want to spend time with them, see.
As Snookie pointed out, a lot of people can make friends that way. And do. Like, they become active in the homeowners association and then someone from said homeowners associaton will say "Hey let's go out sometime" - and they will actually go out. Based entirely on the fact that they're both in the same homeowners association. This is a very foreign concept to me and I find it comforting that Snookie, like me, would instead greet an invitation like that with "Um, no. I don't want to go out with this person I don't know. I am now faced with the awkwardness of the situation." The bottom line is, I suppose, that there are people who (like me and Snooks) are just consciously really highly selective of who they'll spend their time with.
Which made me wonder how she and I got to be friends in the first place, what with this rigorous system in place on both sides. But it's really not that complicated: we worked together, we constantly made each other laugh, we always had something to talk about. We clicked.
I just don't click with many people. Not in a way that makes me want to hang out with most people I meet, anyway. Which is too bad, but I can't change how I am.
In conclusion, I want this bag. But I don't want to pay that much for it. Woe is me.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Celebrate Smart Bitches Day with…
Kate!
and
Lyvvie!
and
Charles!
and
jmc!
AND SHANNON WHO IS NEW SO BE NICE AND SAY HI. (Hi, Shannon!)
Our kinda-sorta theme (or at least as theme-y as I ever get) is Summer Reading. Not to be confused with summer lovin. Had me a blast. Happened so fast.
Shit. Now I can't stop singing it. Sorry. (Side note: I love Grease. Even when I don't want to, I do. I can't stop it. I mean just TRY not to sing Summer Nights at the top of your lungs now. Go on. I dare you. Especially when they get to the shoop-bop-bop part. And even if your cat is staring at you like you've completely lost your mind, go ahead and just pour it on with that summer dreams ripped at the seams part. It's okay, belt it out. We understand. End of side note.)
ANYWAY. Here, I have a recommendation.
The Eight, by Katherine Neville
Now I'm pretty sure I've recommended this before. But I want to point it out in case you weren't paying attention.
Let me make this really clear: I am not recommending this for beach- or plane-reading. It is not something to take with you on your summer vacation. It's what you read in lieu of a vacation. It kind of is its own vacation - or at least it was for me when I read it lo! these many years ago. It was pretty cool. Like my brain just went to a whole other place and completely forgot the world.
The worst is when someone asks what it's about. Because it's about chess, and a mythical chess set, and the 1973 oil crisis and the French Revolution, and… math and stuff. So really, it doesn't sound terribly interesting, but I promise it is. It's all action-adventurey and suspenseful and historical and there's this kind of puzzle you're solving as you read, but it's about 6 billion times smarter than the Davinci Code.
However, there is a point in this book that everyone reaches, sooner or later. Usually it's when one too many historical figures comes on the scene, and you kinda pull yourself out of the book and go, "Oh shut the fuck up, that is SO ridiculous, does EVERY new character have to turn out to be some famous somebody or other, I mean puh-leeeeez." And that's the point at which you must choose between believability and fun. I said "aw, fuck it, what the hell" and went the fun route. It was quite a ride. But if you can't cozy up to some Suspension of Disbelief, you'll just roll your eyes and be annoyed for hundreds of pages, so don't bother. Consider yourself warned.
So if you, like me, can't afford four days and three nights in a fine hotel in the heart of Paris, drinking champagne and walking around the Left Bank and shopping and doing a day trip to Chartres and then just adding on a couple of days so you can check out the Loire castles and vineyards and -- sorry, where was I? Oh yeah - if you can't manage a REAL vacation, you can read The Eight and maybe, just maybe get swept away for a couple of days. It's some serious escapism. Or at least it was for me, and nearly everyone I ever lent it to. Your mileage may vary, of course.
PS: I just got a new Heyer in the mail (These Old Shades) and am already just flat-out thrilled by the back-cover blurb, so I'll SBD that next week. I'm so excited! New book, new book, yay!
Kate!
and
Lyvvie!
and
Charles!
and
jmc!
AND SHANNON WHO IS NEW SO BE NICE AND SAY HI. (Hi, Shannon!)
Our kinda-sorta theme (or at least as theme-y as I ever get) is Summer Reading. Not to be confused with summer lovin. Had me a blast. Happened so fast.
Shit. Now I can't stop singing it. Sorry. (Side note: I love Grease. Even when I don't want to, I do. I can't stop it. I mean just TRY not to sing Summer Nights at the top of your lungs now. Go on. I dare you. Especially when they get to the shoop-bop-bop part. And even if your cat is staring at you like you've completely lost your mind, go ahead and just pour it on with that summer dreams ripped at the seams part. It's okay, belt it out. We understand. End of side note.)
ANYWAY. Here, I have a recommendation.
The Eight, by Katherine Neville
Now I'm pretty sure I've recommended this before. But I want to point it out in case you weren't paying attention.
Let me make this really clear: I am not recommending this for beach- or plane-reading. It is not something to take with you on your summer vacation. It's what you read in lieu of a vacation. It kind of is its own vacation - or at least it was for me when I read it lo! these many years ago. It was pretty cool. Like my brain just went to a whole other place and completely forgot the world.
The worst is when someone asks what it's about. Because it's about chess, and a mythical chess set, and the 1973 oil crisis and the French Revolution, and… math and stuff. So really, it doesn't sound terribly interesting, but I promise it is. It's all action-adventurey and suspenseful and historical and there's this kind of puzzle you're solving as you read, but it's about 6 billion times smarter than the Davinci Code.
However, there is a point in this book that everyone reaches, sooner or later. Usually it's when one too many historical figures comes on the scene, and you kinda pull yourself out of the book and go, "Oh shut the fuck up, that is SO ridiculous, does EVERY new character have to turn out to be some famous somebody or other, I mean puh-leeeeez." And that's the point at which you must choose between believability and fun. I said "aw, fuck it, what the hell" and went the fun route. It was quite a ride. But if you can't cozy up to some Suspension of Disbelief, you'll just roll your eyes and be annoyed for hundreds of pages, so don't bother. Consider yourself warned.
So if you, like me, can't afford four days and three nights in a fine hotel in the heart of Paris, drinking champagne and walking around the Left Bank and shopping and doing a day trip to Chartres and then just adding on a couple of days so you can check out the Loire castles and vineyards and -- sorry, where was I? Oh yeah - if you can't manage a REAL vacation, you can read The Eight and maybe, just maybe get swept away for a couple of days. It's some serious escapism. Or at least it was for me, and nearly everyone I ever lent it to. Your mileage may vary, of course.
PS: I just got a new Heyer in the mail (These Old Shades) and am already just flat-out thrilled by the back-cover blurb, so I'll SBD that next week. I'm so excited! New book, new book, yay!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
