Even Cowgirls Get the Blues by Tom Robbins

If this title intrigues you, for the love of panty-eating goats, please read the book. Don't see the movie first or only. The cast is pretty stellar and Uma Thurman perfectly embodies our heroine, but the movie would make absolutely no sense without having first read the book. This is the most immediate burning thought I have about Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, so let's get on with this review.

I was really diggin' this book in the beginning. Typical Robbins humor, wit, and intelligence focused on a strong female lead. Sissy Hankshaw was born to a poor Richmond, Virginia, family—the only girl—and she has enormous thumbs. We're talking so large she has to wear zippered jumpsuits, for she can't operate a button. So large her father makes an aside that she'd make a good hitchhiker. Young Sissy, not understanding the intention of the statement, does just that.

But you know what? Sissy is the best damned hitchhiker there is, ever was, and ever will be. Her thumbs attract vehicles and drivers of all types. They're as hypnotizing as Biggie's words. Anyway, meeting the late-twenties master hitchhiker is when the plot really begins. I loved Sissy at this point, because she did what she wanted, whenever she wanted, pausing only to star in feminine hygiene advertisements (thumbs obscured, of course). What a role model! I remember writing a review on Robbins before, and a friend commenting that he was a great writer but sexist. That statement was plaguing me while reading Cowgirls, because I hadn't ever considered him sexist. Yes, he certainly objectifies women, but it's more than that; it's glorification. Any of Robbins' novels I've read mention as much cunnilingus, vagina musk, female masturbation, lesbianism, and powerful sexuality as lady-penned groundbreakers Fear of Flying or Rubyfruit Jungle. His use of raw feminine reality isn't exploitative or forced, and I really appreciate that about the guy. Sexist? Still don't think so. Sure, I could point out little things, like Sissy deciding to get married (but c'mon, it's mostly because she has a Native American fetish) or that Sissy is extraordinarily beautiful, aside from the thumbs (unfortunately, ugly girls star in nothing. Never talk to me about sitcoms). Ultimately, I think this novel celebrates women—especially cowgirls.

So what, exactly, is a cowgirl? And why would you want to read this novel, knowing only that it stars a big-thumbed beauty and sex? In typical fashion, Robbins weaves in plenty of philosophy (Brought to you buy the Chink, who is Japanese, and his clockworks), modern thought (marriage is a plum deal for men, not women, p. 73), and a graphic revenge story (Sissy utilizes her thumb on a pervert, in a different way than one would imagine, p. 315). These three threads I mentioned are just a few of many. God, I am such a fangirl, but man, does Robbins produce a high-quality sheet. FOCUS KRISTINA.

I recommend reading this book as I would any other Robbins novel, because it is good for people who like to think and laugh, preferably at the same time. If you like to do neither, or only separately, I don't want to consort with you anyhow. A few paragraphs ago I mentioned how I really liked this novel at first, which is true. By the end, it wasn't that I liked it less, but that I was disappointed in a few of Sissy's actions (violence towards her benefactor, the Countess, and her decision to conform to society's ideals of beauty). The first shocked me, and the second left me agape. But upon further reflection, I'm glad Robbins threw a couple of wrenches in there, doing the whole "make characters screw up so they seem more real" thing. But all's well that ends well, and the theme of Cowgirls remains one of nonconformity. Conform? Don't do it! We are all beautiful, monstrous thumbs and all.

And as far as cowgirls go, they are just that: women who work on a ranch. Jellybean Bonanza is the cutest cowgirl you'll ever see (in Robbins' words), underage and achieving her life's dream. She bucked trends and did what she wanted her whole life, packing a couple of six-shooters and riding horses. And that's just Jelly. We won't go into the metaphorical here; just imagine a group of hot, horny women running The Rubber Rose Ranch (named after the bestselling douchebag) and protecting the last flock of whooping cranes with everything they've got.

I could go on, but I won't. Chances are, you haven't even read this far. I will leave you with something to chew on, for this bit amused (in the thinking and laughing way) my reading partner and me.

"...But let me give you this caution, Sissy, my podner: Love is dope, not chicken soup."

When Sissy continued to look puzzled, Jelly added, "I mean, love is something to be passed around freely, not spooned down someone's throat for their own good by a Jewish mother who cooked it all by herself" (168).

KK

Next up: The Death of Bunny Munro (yes, Jim, finally).

B is for Beer by Tom Robbins

I'm not updating this blog anymore. For future reviews, please visit kristina-king.com

When I pick up a Tom Robbins book, I know I am in for a good read: entertaining and thought-provoking. When I learned he wrote "A Children's Book for Grown-ups," or, "A Grown-up Book for Children," I was pumped. Well, why?
It's about beer! B is for Beer features one of my favorite Earthly pleasures as its subject. Like a disarmingly light hoppy brew, this book is best enjoyed on a warm sunny day, under a shady tree. (Which is exactly how I enjoyed most of it.)

This is a brief, breezy book, so all I'm offering is a brief, breezy review. If you haven't read Robbins before, let me tell ya: the guy has a way with prose (pleasing, but not too flowery) and humor (definitely funny). B is for Beer excels in both: "Do you know about drizzle, that thin, soft rain that could be mistaken for a mean case of witch measles? Seattle is the world headquarters of drizzle, and in autumn it leaves a damp gray rash on everything, as though the city were a baby that had been left too long in a wet diaper and then rolled in newspaper" (11). Oh, LOLZ. I laughed aloud sitting in under that tree in the park, all by myself. So, what's this book about, KK, besides beer?

It's about what beer does to a person. (Particularly, an inquisitive five-year-old girl named Gracie Perkel.) It's about how to be a parent. (Dad? Not so good. Uncle Moe? He rocks.) It's about how beer is made. (Science!) It's about what makes us drunk. (Beer Fairy!?) Like I said, it's a breezy read, and worth it for the humor alone. Another plus is its protagonist, Gracie. Dudes! This book follows a five-year-old girl around as she learns how the world works. It doesn't talk down to her; in fact, it reminds us to take kids seriously. Remember that they are learning and trying not to feel humiliated while doing so. It's a reminder that we all could use (its not limited only to children), but enough said: you don't want me going on some "give everyone a chance," "peace and love, man," rant.

For these reasons, I recommend reading this book as an adult. Would you seriously read this to a kid? I would. Why not? Kids gotta learn how beer works sometime. Sure, it'll make you feel happy and dizzy for a while, but before you know it, you're sitting outside of a neighborhood cafe dressed as a zombie and dry heaving the morning after.
There are little mini-lessons here and there (c'mon, every book is didactic in some way) that little Rosie could stand to learn; some things more sophisticated than "Don't poop in the bathtub." Take, for example, chapter 17, where the Beer Fairy explains "that matters are very seldom all black or all white. They can even be both at the same time" (106). Oh, wait! That isn't a lesson just for children, either! Damnit, Robbins, you trickster—trying to teach children and adults alike the value of tolerance, acceptance and patience, all under the guise of how beer is made.

Recommendation: It's a good summer read for adults and children. I totally buy into that.

KK

Next up: Even Cowgirls Get the Blues by Robbins. I know, I said I was going to read Bunny Munro by Nick Cave next, but then my friend suggested we read some Tom Robbins together. The local bookstore didn't have a copy of Cowgirls for him, so he bought B is for Beer to give me a quick Robbins fix. Now that we're both in possession of Cowgirls, though, I'll read it and review it. The review itself will probably be annoying and esoteric, though, because I'll steal said friend's good ideas. Just a warning.

And the Ass Saw the Angel by Nick Cave

I had to read And the Ass Saw the Angel because I'm a Nick Cave fangirl. I met a fellow obsessive Cave fan a couple of months ago, and in discussing various things, I had to admit I hadn't read either of Cave's novels. My excuse had always been that And the Ass is out-of-print, and Xenu-forbid I spend more than four dollars on a book. But, I shouldn't be a bad fangirl. So, I found a used copy online for ten bucks shipped—a miracle, as this wasn't the first time I was looking for a cheap copy—and finally read the damn thing. I love Cave because he crams his songs with figurative language, allusions, and philosophical queries ("if I have no free will, then how can I be morally culpable?"). I get not only the visceral ROCK AND ROLL! sensation from his music, but also the "I think I'm getting smarter" feeling.

I'm having trouble objectively reviewing this book because a) I love the man so much b) While reading it, I heard his voice and c) it was the longest song he's every written, and I'm not sure he would put it on another B-Sides album. a.2) If I laud the book, is it because I'm blinded by adoration? Or will I give it a bad review just so I can prove I'm not that person? b.2) that says something about his voice, though. If this book didn't have his name anywhere on the cover and I did a blind read, I would say, "This reads like Nick Cave." c.2) The Bad Seed's B-Sides and Rarities has many covers, alternate takes, and extended cuts. A few songs should've been included on albums, not just the compilation. If And the Ass were a song, would it be strong enough for B-Sides? The novel has similar character archetypes, motifs and situations as his songs, so it fits right in. But is it too long and ambitious? Yeah, I don't know. Anyway, Cave is an Australian, but he always wanted to be an American cowboy. That's good for us, because And the Ass is Southern Gothic in the vein of Flannery O'Connor.

And the Ass is about a downtrodden hillperson named Euchrid Eucrow. Not only was he born into abject poverty, but he's mute and has an abusive alcoholic mother and a father who cruelly traps animals for entertainment. He lives in Ukulore Valley, which is home to sugar-cane farmers and religious fanatics, none of whom are kind to him. Euchrid realizes he was born into a bad situation, but really tries to make the best of it. He picks his scabs, builds a secret enclave in the marshland, befriends a whore, kills some people, and talks to God. Some of these things will turn you off the character, as might his spying on a little girl and his later raping and attempted killing of her. And no, I'm not giving anything away. You'll see this stuff coming (it's like mythology, man). Anyway, the reader remains sympathetic to Euchrid, even though he's a bastard. He is just such a poor son-of-a-bitch, you can't turn your back on him. You want someone to love him: finally, someone does, because she thinks he's Jesus.

Ok, so that "Yeah, I don't know," I gave earlier in this review? I'm now changing my answer to "No, it is not too long and ambititous." The above paragraph made me realize this is a pretty kick-ass story, full of all things grotesque. Hey—that's why I like Cave as a songwriter so much!

Also, I really like that I am so damned sympathetic to Euchrid, even though he's a monster. You know what? It's the same feeling one gets when reading Frankenstein. Frankenstein's monster was an abomination only because someone created him. It's the same thing with Euchrid. Neither he nor the monster asked to be born into a world where no one would love them. They didn't ask to be spit on, beat constantly, and ignored. They endlessly searched for love and acceptance, but had so much stacked against them it was freakin' impossible to find.

You know what? I'm not analyzing any more. There is so much in this novel to talk about (most obviously its Biblical allusions, its Gothicness, its plot—rife with appalling moments—and its epicness) that I'm calling it a day here. The most powerful reaction I had was the sympathy I felt for Euchrid (which is what I liked most about Frankenstein). If we are responsible for creating a monster, how much responsibility can said monster take for his actions?

KK

Next up: The Walking Dead (compendium one).

Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi

I'll be quick with this one: Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi is such a quick read, you have no reason to not pick it up. Too many double negatives? Fair enough: read this graphic novel!

Readers of this blog don't need to be told that not all people living in the Middle East are crazy extremists. In fact, very few people are Islamic extremists. However, we Americans tend to forget that, and imagine every dark-haired person who knows something about Islam is going to blow us up. But like I said, if you're reading my blog, you are probably my friend, and not a douchebag. You know that the terrorists we are supposed to be afraid of are few and far between, and they aren't even all Muslims (but we fear the President, because he is a half-breed Muslin).

My point with all this? Satrapi's novel is her growing up, coming-of-age tale. She just happened to grow up in revolutionary Iran: we see her change from a precocious girl intent on reading great philosophers to a pre-teen wearing a veil and fearing the repercussions of protest. Satrapi humanizes those Middle Eastern monsters. They're real people, not caricatures wearing towels on their heads. I would love to get a class set of this and teach it to high school freshman. Being a teacher, I see daily the misunderstanding Americans have of other cultures. Many kids truly fear anyone who might hail from the Middle East, because a few crazies plot against our faultless nation. The graphic novel is an ideal medium through which to enlighten our kids.

Persepolis is just so damn engaging! It was so difficult to put down (you mean I need to answer that phone call? But it's just my job. Class is starting? Meh, they don't need me). Satrapi's illustrations are simple, but get the point across. The novel is so easy to read not only because of the clarity, but because of the events she covers. She not only writes of her heroes—her dissenting relatives and neighbors who are jailed or executed—but of her drug use and sexual experiences. It's relatable, folks, and that's why I must recommend it. She puts a face on a culture we too often fear. Yes, she's not typical—she went to French school, her parents were wealthy, their family had a maid, she didn't have to wear a veil until forced to by the state—but that doesn't matter. Just giving us one face will humanize her culture. She may not have intended to be the token, but maybe she did. It doesn't matter, though, because we really need it. The novel is also a nice little history lesson. We need more like this.

KK

Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy

As Twitter can attest, my initial response to Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy was "Huh." It took me over a month to read this book (irregular reading, yes, but that's still an absurd amount of time). I never felt myself drawn into it, and when someone would ask me what I thought so far, my answer would be something like, "Well, it's really violent. Has that one thing happened yet? I don't know. I forgot." I didn't have any desire to pick the novel up after I had put it down. Nevertheless, I kept on truckin', and, predictably, I'm happy I did so. Would I recommend this book? Cautiously. If you like to explore variations on the western, if you like McCarthy, or if you like historical fiction, definitely read it. But for others (especially if you don't care about the western genre, or cry after reading about babies getting their skulls smashed open), I would stay away.

Blood Meridian is a Western that is based on historical accounts taking place in the mid-1800s, primarily on the Texas/Mexico border. We readers follow The Kid, a hardened youth who joins a group of injun-killers. Remember when white man pillaged North America, killing and stealing to fulfill our manifest destiny? Some tribes of Native Americans fought back, so motley bands of scalp-hunters traversed the border killing for a value price. All the kid knows is violence, so he fits in well with this group.

It being a Western, you might predict we'll see the kid's personal growth: perhaps he starts out as a no-nonsense juvenile delinquent, tricked into joining Glanton's Gang because he likes the idea of becoming a hero. The Western Frontier will be crossed as he is taken under the wing of a wise veteran and emerges an intelligent Man set on making right all sorts of wrongs. McCarthy knows we were expect this out of a Western, so he takes those common archetypes (the naïve kid, the grizzled vet, violence as a rite-of-passage) and skews them. The kid doesn't cross the frontier and become a better man: instead, his growth is retarded. The cover of the novel tells us it's a "classic American novel of regeneration through violence" (Michael Herr). We expect regeneration: The Kid must, as characters in frontier myths do, perform some act of violence that enables him to literally and metaphorically cross the frontier. Do we get that regeneration?

Now that's I've blathered on for a while about Westerns and our focus character, the kid, I'll let you in on something: the kid is not the most interesting character in the book. The Judge (Holden) is an epic antagonist. Epic in the Iago sort-of-way: he's just so damn evil (murderer, likely pedophile) and intelligent (can speak a million languages, can perform any task, can dance like a motherfucker). Imagine an immense man—tall and fleshy—with absolutely no hair on his body and a predilection for walking around naked. Expriest Tobin tells the kid, "You wouldn't think to look at him that he could outdance the devil himself now would ye? God, the man is a dancer, you'll not take that away from him" (123). That's the judge. If you're considering reading the book, do it for the sake of Holden. Some say he's the devil incarnate...

I seen him before, said the kid. In Nacogdoches.
Tobin smiled. Every man in the company claims to have encountered that sooty-soled rascal in some other place (124).

Holden has a peculiar habit of taking notes on all signs of civilization and wildlife the party comes across. He takes rubbings of ancient stonework, shoots birds and stuffs them, and studies butterflies. When asked by Toadvine why (198), he replies, "Whatever in creation exists without my knowledge exists without my consent."

This is my claim, he said. And yet everywhere upon it are pockets of autonomous life. Autonomous. In order for it to be mine nothing must be permitted to occur upon it save by my dispensation...But that man who sets himself the task of singling out the thread of order from the tapestry will by the decision alone have taken charge of the world and it is only by such taking charge that he will effect a way to dictate the terms of his own fate (199).

So is Holden simply taking a hold of his own fate, by collecting all of this knowledge? No, it can't be, for that's not all he is capable of, as he handles a howitzer like a handgun and cites court cases better than any lawyer. He can, quite literally, do anything: he's the MacGyver of the West. Without the mullet.

When we're analyzing this book as a Western, it's easy to focus on the kid's journey, as he is the character we follow from the get-go. He, more or less, conforms to the archetype. I mentioned before that his growth is retarded. It's not that he remains static: it's that his development is subtle. As a teenager, after most of the company has been destroyed, he has a couple of chances to shoot the judge, who has been pursuing him and Tobin. But the kid doesn't do it. Is this the moment we realize he's crossed the border? The Blood Meridian?

The last dozen pages or so of the novel fast-forward to over a decade later when we find the kid, solitary as ever, going from town-to-town. Did he find what he's looking for? Is he even looking for anything? Waiting, perhaps. The Judge isn't done with him. I shan't spoil it for you, but leave you with this, from the final page (335):

Towering over them all is the judge and he is naked dancing, his small feet lively and quick, and now in doubletime and bowing to the ladies, huge and pale and hairless, like an enormous infant...He dances in light and in shadow and he is a great favorite. He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die.

So what, exactly, is the judge? An insanely skilled man who's discovered the Fountain of Youth? The devil? A symbol of evil? Read the book already. There is much more to talk about (morality, expansion, redemption), so I'm cutting myself off. Yes, I didn't even answer all of the questions I asked (do we get that promised regeneration?). I recommend this book if you can handle slow plot development and violence. After thinking on it for a little over a day, I'm sold. My feelings have gone from "Huh" to "YES."

KK

Next up: Persepolis, which should be a quick read.

The Gunslinger by Stephen King

The Gunslinger opens with a stark, telling line: The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed. I was instantly interested in the plot—why is the man fleeing the gunslinger? Or is he fleeing someone else? Who is the bad guy?

Ultimately, these questions were answered. However, there was a lot about a tower and mystical things that I didn't care about. What, Kristina? This is the first book of The Dark Tower series. How could you not care about the tower?

This is the first Stephen King book I've ever read. No Carrie, Cujo or On Writing prior to this. I knew he was a writer that could pound out bestsellers for the masses. I also knew many of my friends, who are serious about literature and writing, like to read him. So, I definitely didn't approach this with a He's like Dan Brown attitude (yes, I do refuse to read The DaVinci Code). I was excited to see why this series has such a cult following.

Included in my edition of The Gunslinger (it was a gift, so it's a recent edition) is an intro and forward by King, which served to do two things:

1. Get me excited to read a contemporary epic, one with Western sensibilities, that the author worked on for an über long time (this is no Twilight. He wrote the series between 1970 and 2004).

2. Create a lot of build-up. King was inspired by J.R.R. Tolkien when he decided to write this. (But perhaps admitting this to your readers is an unfulfillable promise?)

The Gunslinger follows Roland Deschain, a really old, yet not aged, nomad. He was trained in the way of the gun, and when we first meet him, he is the one pursuing the man in black. (Given the name, you could guess the bad guy right away. Tolkien, too, used the black/white dichotomy.)

His journey to catch up with the man in black is riveting, punctuated with lively flashbacks. I really enjoyed these parts of the book: how Roland won his title of Gunslinger, how he'd roll into ghost towns and shoot 'em up; how he'd battle demons; and how he'd kick ass! There were softer, endearing moments with Roland, too: he had a brief relationship with a broken woman, Alice, and loved a young comrade, Jake. Roland is an awesome character: he has near-unbeatable fighting abilities and appears to have a strong moral compass, but I was still surprised by some of his actions. King was right on the money with this epic thing (Hero's Journey, anyone?) and the Western thing (guns, horses, sex and dust).

That being said, though, I think I ruined the experience for myself by reading his forward. I really didn't need to know his main inspiration was J.R.R. Tolkien. Every time I came across the mysticism, especially the Dark Tower palaver, I zoned out. I even made a note, "totally LOTR", in regards to this passage: "Once there was a king, he might have told the boy; the Eld whose blood, attenuated though it may be, still flows in my veins. But kings are done, lad. In the world of light, anyway" (205). I found it hard to enjoy that, when I kept thinking about The Lord of the Rings. I understand the need for it, though, as King did set out to complete a sweeping epic with an American bent. I just didn't care for it. Get back to the sex and guns! And the brief, yet integral, relationships Roland has with other people.

So, all in all, there was a lot to enjoy in this book. There was some stuff that made my eyes glaze over. Will I read the rest of the series? Yes, before I die. I heard the ending is JUST COMPLETELY AMAZING. Will I get through the next six books anytime soon? Not likely: I have way too many neglected books on my shelves.

KK

Next: Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy

Orlando

I decided to read Orlando for a few reasons:
1. Like many feminists, I was brainwashed by the evil of "A Room of One's Own."
2. I read, and enjoyed, Mrs. Dalloway (in a class with Paul Dresman presiding, one of my faves).
3. In my blog reading, someone somewhere called Orlando something of a science fiction novel. In the past year I have started reading sci-fi (I know, I know, what have I been doing all of my life?), so I thought it would be interesting to look at this novel with that frame.

Orlando, in the beginning of Woolf's tale, is a man with a rich family heritage—literally, rich. He lives in a massive estate, has oodles of servants, and wears fancy clothes (among other things). He desperately wants to be a poet, however, but can't figure out how to do it, considering the constriction of wealth. He winds up in Turkey to serve an ambassador, where he marries a whore and is assumed killed after a conflict.

Well, he's not dead; he took a long nap and woke up with a new body, of the female sex. From here, she lives with some Gypsies and rekindles her love of the outdoors, and comes to understand what is important in life (as it turns out, the Gypsies are not at all impressed with her family's land holdings or wealth). She eventually goes back to England, rekindles some old relationships (one with another gender-switcher), and time-travels to Victorian England, where her main pursuit is a husband (remember, everyone was stuffy back then). Things happens, she finds a husband, and she ends up in modern day England (1928). I'm being purposefully vague, but I also don't remember the latter part of the book as much as the first three quarters. I was a bit bored (which I don't want to admit! I love Woolf)!

One of the most intriguing things about this novel is that Woolf wrote it about one of her close friends, Vita Sackville-West (not to be confused with a Sackville-Baggins hobbit). Woolf modeled the Lady Orlando on her, even using Sackville-West's relationship with a lovely lady as the basis of Sir Orlando's crisis (his with the Russian fox Sasha). I suppose that is the easy way to skirt the reality of Sackville-West's bisexuality; Woolf did write this in the 1920s, after all.

My complaint? Woolf has an opportunity to make a grand feminist statement. Because Orlando lives for a few hundred years, we should see how women's rights have changed. Woolf is the author of "A Room of One's Own," after all! But we don't see how Orlando's rights (property ownership, sexual freedom, access to education) change over the course of several centuries and a swap of sex. I really expected this to be hard-hitting—if Woolf did cover the rights and opportunities granted to each gender, I completely missed it. At one point in the novel, Orlando revels in her femininity after seeing how a flash of her calf nearly

killed a sailor (157). All that says, however, is that women's sole power is their sexuality or beauty. Even if that's true in that era, why not juxtapose that with Orlando considering how much power she had as a male, but didn't realize? There is just so much potential for a critique of the male privilege (but maybe Woolf was bored with the topic).

Petty feminist critique aside, I would recommend this book for the awesome time-traveling aspects. Who doesn't like time travel? If you said "ME!" you are a waste of cyberspace. But, as I wrote before, I got bored towards the end; perhaps I thought it was repetitive, and I expected more to happen. Nevertheless, I recommend one read this novel, especially once you consider the year it was written. Equal rights and time travel were two topics not discussed nearly enough, and Woolf was a great contributor to both. I also don't want to downplay the other themes we could discuss; this novel celebrates being a woman, considers what marriage really is, and the role of poet in society. Through my lenses, though, I feel the most pertinent point to bring up is the feminist one—and there is so much more to discuss about Orlando! But I've written enough.

KK

Next: Another biography, but this time, it's self-aggrandizing (obviously, it's of the auto- variety). It goes without saying, it was written by a man.