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.

Dune by Frank Herbert

Now that is a nerdy sci-fi book—I had no plans to read it. But, a friend and I met for a beer, and he brought it along to read while waiting for me. I said I had never read it, which is shocking to a creature that's read it so many times. So shocking in fact, he finished it the next day, in for our next meeting at '80s Night. That's how I ended up with a copy of Dune shoved down my pants while listening to "Love is a Battlefield." (What else are you supposed to do with a book while gyrating? If only I had—and wore—big-pocketed raver pants).

I have been trying to read more sci-fi, as I completely ignored the genre MY ENTIRE LIFE (I have a lot of catching up to do). What I like most about sci-fi is its speculative and metaphorical qualities. Oh, and, you know, sexy aliens and pleasure 'droids.

Enjoying these things the most makes writing about Dune difficult. Usually I latch onto some allegory right quick, and harp on the relevant qualities of a decades-old novel. Dune had my devoted attention after the first 15 pages or so, and I was ravenous to finish it. Yet I hadn't identified what it could be, besides a story about some people living on a desert planet.

Dune takes place mostly on a desert planet, Arrakis. It's like a big sand dune, obvs. Our protagonist, Paul Atreides (Maud'Dib) is a youth gifted with a preternatural intellect and fighting ability, which he owes to selective breeding and strict training. He's also a prophet, leading a group of underestimated sand people, Fremen, who had no reason to trust him. But he becomes their fearless religious and combat leader, as they struggle against Imperial forces. The Fremen, once over their initial discomfort, treat Paul as a messiah (like Jesus or Obama). At this point, Paul is thought dead by the Imperial forces, so the established rulers ignore the Fremen and their crazy desert-religion.

I struggled for a while to determine what this book was about, but with further reflection, themes abound: don't underestimate people conditioned to live under circumstances unlike your own; if you don't like the conditions of your environment, cooperate to create change; water (read: everything) belongs to your tribe/community; what addiction can control; etc. These are all explored thoroughly in the novel, especially the ecological aspects. I think Frank Herbert took about 599 years to write the novel—did you know he got the initial inspiration after visiting the dunes of Florence, Oregon?

Anyway, I've been long-winded, and need to draw this to a close. I recommend reading this, if you want to become familiar with one of the most-read and well-regarded sci-fi novels ever. I had just two qualms with it (but that's because I'm a damned feminist). One was the final line of the novel: "While we, Chani, we who carry the name of concubine—history will call us wives" (489). Apparently tens of thousands of years from now, women will still consider themselves the "other" of men, and we will be known only as wives or concubines, not people of our own right. Of course I want women to be known as something other than what their relationship was to a man. Ok. Number two; there was one homosexual character, the Baron Harkonnen, and he was pretty disgusting: fat, sadistic and treacherous. This character is already pretty evil; what can we do to demonize him further? Oh yes, let's make him gay. We'll surely disgust our readers.

But aside from those two items, I really enjoyed reading Dune. Talk about exhaustive world-building: occupations, planets, culture, and languages were all created for this novel (and later, sequels, and later yet, prequels). It really appears to be sci-fi's answer to Lord of the Rings. Pretty badass.

KK

Skinny Legs and All by Tom Robbins

Last week I finished reading Skinny Legs and All by Tom Robbins. OH, WHAT A BOOK. As quoth by Playboy on the back cover, it is "flat-out fabulous." Dear readers, I read Still Life with Woodpecker by Robbins last year, and loved it also. Both books are like crack. Well, what I imagine literary crack to be, anyway: forever relevant, full of allusions, and impossible to put down! As in Still Life, I encountered the following in Skinny Legs: an engaging plot, strong female characters, a whole lot of randomness, and graphic sex scenes.

It goes without saying I will read all of Robbins' books.

Skinny Legs chronicles the cross-country adventure of Ellen Cherry Charles and her new hubby, Boomer... in a large turkey. Ellen Cherry is an educated artist, and Boomer is the fool who created the turkey out of an Airstream trailer, not realizing until later it was "art." Naturally, a question asked by the book is: how do we define art?
But that's not the only question. Another important one is: How do we solve the Israel-Palestine conflict (adding to that—can we)? Naturally, we get a lot of great discussion about this through a Jew and Arab who open a Middle Eastern restaurant together.

Another shocking thing: inanimate objects are capable of locomotion—most just don't know how. But if you've ever wanted to follow a devout Christian spoon, a transsexual Can O'Beans, and a sensual conch shell around New York City, this is your book! In addition to these colorful characters, we also meet Ellen's parents and her uncle, a fire-and-brimstone preacher hell-bent on summoning the Third Coming. Many of these characters start out in Colonial Pines, Virginia; move to NYC; and end up in Jerusalem.

Speaking of the fertile crescent, the title Skinny Legs and All is in reference to Salome, the Biblical temptress who entertained her stepfather Herod, for which she received a gift of her choice—which happened to be the head of John the Baptist. She is considered a jezebel (not to be confused with the ill-regarded biblical Jezebel) because she danced salaciously for Herod, removing seven veils (something Robbins uses as a plot device in multiple ways) to expose her underage flesh. THAT IS MY IDEA OF A GOOD TIME (if I were a king, not a Kristina King). Anyway, this biblical/Robbinsian Salome has skinny legs. BAM! WE HAVE A TITLE!

So, the Seven Veils thing: Babylonian lore tells us that Ishtar visited the underworld (it's like Enchanted Forest for the gods), and had to remove one piece of clothing for each gate she stepped through; Salome merely adapted that ritual for her depraved dance. A character in the book dances the said cha-cha-cha, lowering veils to expose her flesh, and ultimately, reality. Too bad so many men chose The Super Bowl over the dance!

The dance, the lowering of the veils and raising of our consciousness, is when Robbins is at his best. His characters, particularly Ellen Cherry, learn what really matters in life (it is not politics, religion, money...well, there are seven veils). For the readers, this may be an eloquent reminder (457):

And this further thought occurred to Ellen Cherry after the falling aside of Salome's first veil: that whenever society demonstrated signs of rediscovering the goddess, or returning to more feminine values systems, the patriarchally conditioned psyche generated diseases, literal diseases such as syphilis in the hotly romantic nineteenth century and, in the wake of the Sexual Revolution of the 1960s, AIDS. Those diseases were caused not by sexual license but by the fear of sexual license; by the conservative DNA's inability to adjust to hedonism; and they were compounded by guilt over the suppression of the Great Mother and the denial of the sensuality with which she so frequently underscored her coexistence with the void.

Or, it might be mind-blowing (460):

The monkey wrench in the progressive machinery of primate evolution was the propensity of the primate band to take its political leaders—its dominant males—too seriously. Of benefit to the band only when it was actively threatened by predators, the dominant male (or political boss) was almost wholly self-serving and was naturally dedicated not to liberation but to control. Behind his chest-banging and fang display, he was largely a joke and could be kept in his place (his place being that of a necessary evil) by disrespect and laughter. If, for example, when Hitler stood up to rant in the beer halls of Munich, the good drinkers had taken him more lightly, had they, instead of buying his act, snickered and hooted and pelted him with sausage skins, the Holocaust might have been avoided.

I bet you saw this coming: I highly recommend this novel.

-KK

P.S. Next up is Dune, because it was thrust in my pants whilst dancing to "Love is a Battlefield" at '80s Night.

"Tender is the Night" by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald is a semi-autobiographical novel that follows Dick Diver and his wife Nicole, from their initial meeting as doctor-and-patient, to their inevitable separation. That part is fiction; however, the novel chronicles Fitzgerald's perceived personal and career failings, and his wife Zelda's breakdown (as well as both of their extramarital affairs). Dick and Nicole are masks of the Fitzgeralds, augmented by their real-life friends. I suppose there's no better material than your own life and relationships.

Tender is a beautiful read. Unfortunately, I've read or taught The Great Gatsby too many times—I keep expecting to find all of these symbols and motifs in Tender, much like the eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg and the green light in Gatsby. Perhaps it's amateur to compare Tender with Gatsby. Everyone on the planet has done that. Well, I just did: as a representative of the human race, I'll bet there are many like me who haven't read anything by Fitzgerald save these two novels (ok, perhaps also "Curious Case of Benjamin Button"). If you're expecting another great novel in the vein of Gatsby, which shows us how damaging money and ambition can be, you won't find it here. Sure, money is an important part of Tender, but it's something more inherently human that causes the damage: neuroses and addiction.

Nicole is neurotic, having suffered a mental breakdown caused by her incestuous relationship with her father. She is in constant danger of breaking down again; considering they have two children, Dick does as much as he can to prevent this from happening. Ultimately, though, it is their incompatibility that causes a breakdown of sorts. They realize their marriage is through, but try to ignore it (for the sake of the kids?). Nicole ignores it by considering an affair (which she follows through with) and Dick ignores it by drinking—quite a detrimental amount. The entire arc is believable; many of us, in our relationships, have experienced these feelings, or even acted similarly.

The backdrop is a continuation of Gatsby's roaring '20s: the characters work and take vacations at all sorts of idyllic spots. We see how superficial life is: how people act like nothing is wrong, but in reality, everything they know is falling apart. Fitzgerald skewers the hollow upper class well, because he had plenty of time being a member or knowing them. It's like me writing the great hipster novel (I deny I am a hipster, but damnit, so many signs point to yes...)

I recommend this novel without pause. Fitzgerald has such a way with words—if you don't know it, you've heard this. He's a standard. Also, it's fascinating to see someone spin their experiences into a work of fiction, yet still retain authenticity and honesty. No one is blamed—it isn't Nicole's fault she had neuroses, and Dick didn't marry her for her money. Yet, in the end, Nicole recovers and Dick disappears. Oh! Here's a lesson: when you're in the money crowd, it isn't a lifetime membership.

KK

The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

In January I experienced a "Quarter-Century Crisis." I was set to turn 25 and doubting everything about my life: I didn't have a job in my chosen field (education), I was having a hard time paying the bills, and was generally self-pitying.

My cooperating teacher (I taught his 9th grade class while I was student teaching) and now friend recommended I read The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho—something about fulfilling one's destiny. Well, it is now August, and I have finished reading it. Why wait so long? I started it six months after the recommendation!

Funny thing: life ensued. I had many good conversations, which led me to cease my pity party (which was a bummer, because everyone loves parties!) and focus on what I had that was good. I had many supportive friends and my steady college job at the credit union back. Plus, I got a call in February to take a month-long substitute teaching job at a middle school (only thing left to do was sell my too-high-of-a-payment-for-a-sub-teacher car), so I didn't have time (...nor desire) to read The Alchemist.

Well, I finally read it. The novel follows a shepherd boy, who is being groomed for something great by his poor parents. However, he doesn't want to pursue a life in the priesthood, and opts to travel. While wandering the countryside with his sheep, he dreams of a treasure, near the Pyramids in Egypt. We follow Santiago as he pursues his treasure, meeting a great King, the love of his life, an alchemist and war. It was a beautiful story, as all the reviews say—but, to this jaded quarter-centenarian, too heavy-handed. While reading, I underlined scores of proverbs and aphorisms and words of advice, ultimately being told that to achieve my destiny, I need to listen to my heart and not fear failure: that the universe will conspire to help me fulfill my dreams.

There are many beautiful, concise statements in the novel that I could slap on photos of a golden pyramid, a soaring falcon, a galloping steed, or a hidden oasis and market as inspirational posters (I'll have to do that when I have a regular teaching job). They aren't terribly cheesy, but definitely motivational, such as "...there is a force that wants you to realize your destiny" (30) and "when you really want something, the universe always conspires in your favor" (38).

When I subbed for said friend in April or so, I spent a few days teaching out of the book, and it sparked some great discussion and musing. Reading it alone, though, it felt like I was drowning in Chicken Soup for the Soul. I alternated between feeling that there was a beautiful message in the book that we don't hear enough of (people try to dissuade you from your dreams because they're too afraid to chase their own) and wanting to stow it on my shelf next to Dianetics and the Bible (how many times can you handle hearing God/Allah will help you achieve your dream?).

Aside from the ham-handed repetition of Disneyesque advice, there is a lot to like about this book. It was first published in 1988, thus making it a truly modern fable. It has also been translated into approximately 23,000,000 languages (sadly, Klingon is not one of them).

This book is a phenomenon, and for that, I recommend reading it (well, that's a slippery slope for recommendations. Would I ever suggest The DaVinci Code because it's a phenomenon? NO).
It is written in simple, beautiful prose, and will make you think about your life. For that, I recommend reading it. Am I doing what I love? Am I chasing my dream? What's preventing me from doing so?

Oh, yeah: I, unlike The Boy, have no idea what my dream is. I don't know what to chase. But, for the moment, I'm content to make the most out of what I have.
I leave you with some beautiful words: "...it's not love to be static like the desert, nor is it love to roam the world like the wind. And it's not love to see everything from a distance... Love is the force that transforms and improves the Soul of the World... when we love, we always strive to become better than we are" (158).

KK

The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury

KK's review is thus: The Martian Chronicles is badass. Read it.


Now it's time for some ruminations. Why did I enjoy The Martian Chronicles so much? Sure, it's speculative, but it's realistic also. It's definitely a parable for what we do to each other and our planet. The novel traces Mankind's conquering of Mars:
1. We explored Mars, surprised to find a sophisticated civilization
2. We inadvertently killed the native population with a common illness
3. We destroyed what the Martians had so carefully crafted: their strong buildings, their logical faith, and their unique knowledge
4. We covered Mars with ill-fabricated edifices and urban sprawl as we colonized there
5. We fled Mars when we thought Earth needed us
6. Then we blew up Earth in a nuclear war, leaving two battered planets to waste, save for a slice of our population

So #5 and 6 haven't yet happened; but they're entirely likely, or something like them. Look at what I've outlined above; this is history repeating itself. It's manifest destiny, Mars-style (hmm, that'd be a good TV show—or US policy).

That is why I think this book is so badass. Bradbury moves humans to a new planet, and we fuck it up. It seems realistic to me!

The novel is really a series of short stories, taking place from January 1999 to October 2026. Of course they're connected; we see some characters recur throughout. But taken separately, each story makes its own point. All together, it sums up man's folly.
There's plenty of futurist speculation and pointed social satire. I think I've said enough to bait you into reading it, so I won't go into the specifics about each story, or about the character. I leave you with this tantalizing tidbit (64):

"... Well, these Martians have art and religion and everything."
"You think that they knew it was all about, do you?"
"For my money."
"And for that reason you started shooting people."
"When I was a kid my folks took me to visit Mexico City. I'll always remember the way my father acted—loud and big. And my mother didn't like the people because they were dark and didn't wash enough. And my sister wouldn't talk to most of them. I was the only one that really liked it. And I can see my mother and father coming to Mars and acting the same way here."

Spender, the shooter of five crewmates while on Mars, was disturbed by the others' treatment of Martian artifacts; he compares their actions to his parents' (and Americans in general) while in a foreign locale. Spender, in his exploration of Mars, realizes the Martians had discovered the meaning of life (67):

"Man had become too much man and not enough animal on Mars too. And the men of Mars realized that in order to survive they would have to forgo asking that one question any longer: Why live? Life was its own answer. Life was the propogation of more life and the living of as good a life as possible..."

KK

P.S. I see that is was made into a series. BETTER WATCH! Thanks, YouTube.

The Savage Detectives by Robert Bolano

The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño

I cannot recall the day I started this book; I know it was a while ago, though. I picked it up because it is one of Paul Dresman’s favorites (or so I hear). Let me describe Paul Dresman for you: A professor of literature at the University of Oregon, he taught 20^th Century Novel and Beat classes among others, but that’s not why we like him. No, we like the way he laughs at his own jokes; the way his leathery skin is stretched over his skull; the way he gets hot during a lecture and unbuttons his floral-print shirts; the way he looks like he’s always on vacation, even while asking you questions about The Dubliners; the way you love him or hate him; and the way he interests those who study sciences, not just English.

Dresman read this novel in its original Spanish, and was waaay excited that it got translated. When I took a class with him, we didn’t read this novel, but he taught it in another novel class (Nate was supposed to read this book, but skipped most of the middle). So, Nate had this poor unread book sitting on its shelf, and all I needed to hear to convince me to read it was “Dresman.” WE LOVE THE GUY.

My review is going to be discombobulated, because my reading of the novel was discombobulated. I picked it up long ago (almost two months?) and took an absurdly long time to read its 577 pages (thank you, Spring Break, for affording me the time to finally finish). I wish I could say I savored it, but I didn’t; at times, a week went by when I didn’t crack it open. Sorry, book, I didn’t mean to hurt you.

Recommendation: read this novel if you’re patient. If you’re impatient, stay away from it. Common negative responses to it are because of its length and its style: the first and third sections are written as diary entries, and the middle section contains something like 50 narrators (however, the narrators are always clearly identified). You will spend hundreds of pages wondering, “What the hell is the point?” But if you’re patient, the point will become clear. And even if it doesn’t, you will enjoy the language.

THIS BOOK IS ALIVE! There are many characters, fictional and nonfictional, and they all feel real. There are no caricatures, even if the story borders on the ridiculous. I could believe every last bit of sex, violence, drug use and poetry. So, even if you can’t make it through the whole thing, or it takes a dreadfully long time to do so (like me!), the characterization is palpable. If anything, it’s a good lesson in how to create full-bodied characters.

So, umm, what is this story about, anyway? Its protagonist is Juan Garcia Madero, a 17-year-old who gets sucked into a poetry movement in Mexico, Visceral Realism. The plot hinges on the two leaders of this group, Arturo Belano and Ulises Lima, as they cavort across the planet and search for the mother of the first phase of Visceral Realism, Cesárea Tinajero.

The novel is a savory ride through these boys’ experiences, as we watch them age, grow up, and wind through countless lives. What is it to be a poet? How do you found a literary movement? Even if you age, do you grow up? What is growing up, anyway? How many artists have become household names? How many artists faded into obscurity? What happens if you get killed in a foreign place? Will anyone realize you’re gone? Did I ask enough questions?

I could analyze the structure of the book (some say it’s ground-breaking; others say it’s a failure; some say it’s a combination of both), but I won’t. I don’t particularly feel like addressing the relevance of the novel, either. Frankly, I’ve failed in reading this novel. I took way too long to read it, and because it’s not my book, I didn’t take a single note in it (yeah, I know I could have used an index card or Post-It flags, but color me lazy). So, I am failing to provide to you the quality reviews (ha?) you’re used to.

Nevertheless, I will give this novel a hesitant recommendation. Read it if you’re patient and curious; read it if you want to get a peek into some implausible, yet totally tangible, lives. I can compare reading this novel to something a minor character notes while watching a major character and another engage in a sword duel: “In a brief moment of lucidity, I was sure we’d all gone crazy. But then that moment of lucidity was displaced by a supersecond of super-lucidity (if I can put it that way), in which I realized that this scene was the logical outcome of our ridiculous lives. It wasn’t a punishment but a new wrinkle. It gave us a glimpse of ourselves in our common humanity…” (454).

KK

The Plague by Albert Camus

I haven't read nearly enough by Albert Camus. Prior to reading The Plague, I had read The Stranger and the short "Myth of Sisyphus." The Stranger is one of my favorite novels; if I try to explain now, this will turn into a review of that. Anyway...

According to the back of the book, "The Plague stands alongside The Stranger among the great novels of the twentieth century. Camus' first book to be published after World War II, it is imbued with the intense concern for the human being that marks all his work. The story takes place in the Algerian port of Oran, where a ravaging epidemic of bubonic plague—which symbolically suggests other spiritual and political plagues—has thrown the city into a harrowing agony. Quarantined from the outside world, Oran becomes a prison of death and disease, to which each character reacts in his own way; the efforts of those seeking to alleviate the suffering become the focus of Camus' human and humane passion."

Some say this novel is an allegory for some crazy-ass political shit: that is is either a metaphor for the French resistance to Nazi occupation, or the spread of fascism. Honestly, I don't know enough about either of those to go into that. I would make an ass of myself. (Then again, some may I make an ass of myself with all this pretentious existentialist talk)...

A. I read somewhere (bad me, no citations) that Camus specifically said this was not an existentialist novel (quickly: Existentialism dictates that existence precedes meaning. It is essential for us to CREATE meaning, because there is no inherent meaning to our existence. It's closely related to Absurdism, in which humans try to find meaning but fail because no such meaning exists. Camus wrote a great deal on these topics (what a badass). I will be a total nerd right now and link to a livejournal post I wrote after reading some Camus. It totally sent me into a mini-crisis). So Camus said this book was not written to make us question the meaning. Were the characters able to realize how absurd life is, fighting the BUBONIC PLAGUE?! Or did they find meaning, thus rising above the absurdity? If we are not allowed to look at the book this way, I am not sure of how to approach it. I don't want Camus' corpse rising from the dead to smite me because I saw The Plague as a book all about finding meaning. What say you. Should I risk it? SHOULD I RISK ZOMBIE-CAMUS?

B. We could write papers and papers on each individual character (well, it's been done, but we could do it again). Cottard tries to kill himself, but finds a reason to live when the plague comes; he smuggles in contraband and makes a killing. Grand spends his free time writing a novel, struggling for months with a complicated opening sentence (only to, at the end of the novel, cut out all the adjectives). Rieux fights the plague tirelessly while his wife is at a sanitarium, only to never be reunited, as she died near plague's end. Paneloux delivers two strikingly different sermons, and believes his faith is enough to fight the plague. And more.

C. You know, this theme of creating meaning is all I got GOOD. There are some others:
*reason vs. emotion (always a literary favorite)
*separation, particularly if it is unending
*does human suffering prove God doesn't exist?
*If you have no future, can you love? Or the converse.
*Modern life—we spend it frittering it away
*being prosecuted for unknown crime

I will stay away from the "meaning of life" analysis, because, well, I do that all the time. In elementary school, during morning announcements, a student was given the opportunity to recommend a book. My teacher nominated me; they expected to be blown away by my recommendation (yeah, I was a nerd then, too). However, I went with the classic One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish and disappointed the hell out of them. But you know what? That book totally describes the meaning of life. That's why I picked it.

Instead, let's go with this "spread of fascism" I was so dead-set against. But rather than fascism singularly, I think it is a novel about the spread of isms. An -ism is a suffix that denotes a system of beliefs/theory/doctrine, a state/condition; a disease; a movement... well, there are lots of things -ism can be attached to. So it's not that simple.

You may be thinking, "C'mon, Kristina, what the eff is your point?" That's a very good question. I am finding it insanely difficult to articulate a cogent point. This novel blew my brains out all over the place. Not only are there 19,000 subtexts to every sentence, but it is written so beautifully, too! I have all of these notes, and all of these directions to take this review.

My point: read this book. Read it with a friend, or perhaps a book club. It is very dense and difficult (obviously—I kept putting off finishing it). I knew that it would come to a point where I would admit defeat and say "this book is so hard!" That time came three days ago, when I finished reading it. I admit defeat. Albert Camus, I have no idea what your book is about.

I am going to discuss, then, one of several thousand points he makes. In the novel, the doctor crusading against the plague, Rieux, and his old doctor buddy Castel, determine it must be the plague. And even if it isn't plague, it is best to proceed with precautionary measures as if it were. Because it is certainly something! After agreeing that prophylactic measures were necessary, the agency in charge displayed some nonchalant official notices. But Rieux thought "one had the feeling that many concessions had been made in a desire not to alarm the public" (50).

But why? Well, the government is afraid.
But not afraid of the Plague.
They are afraid of the townspeople's reaction to an announcement about the plague.

Might their priorities be skewed? Should they let people be oblivious until all the sudden, they are having buboes lanced open before dying in agony?
But it's not just a statement about the government. It's about us, humans, in general.
It's not just our governments or leaders who are slow to react (or even refusing to react). We all are. Some say Camus makes it an allegory for Nazi occupation or Fascism (the last chapter really nails this). But it could be an epidemic of any kind:
starvation
genocide
disease
_________ism

We are blind to what is happening elsewhere; to others' pain/agony/situation/inability to live comfortably and happily... But we know something is happening. We prefer to remain unaware and ignorant, as did the people of Oran:

Hiterto, surprised as he may have been by the strange things happening around him, each individual citizen had gone about his business as usual, so far as this was possible. And no doubt he would have continued doing so. But once the town gates were shut, every one of us realized that all, the narrator included, were, so to speak, in the same boat... (63)

In Oran, before the townspeople knew it, their borders were closed and hundreds were dying a day. Bodies could no longer be buried, but were either cremated in batches or dissolved in lime.
This sounds a lot like other things going on in this perfect world of ours.

The Plague is not all pessimistic and heavy-handed like this. There is actually quite a bit of hope, and a lot about love. Rieux and his friends face the plague head-on, determined to find peace with themselves and be reunited with loved ones. Rambert tries to escape the walls, yet realizes his place is fighting the plague; but he is reunited with his wife. Tarrou found his meaning by working against the plague; but when the epidemic waned, his strength did too, and he found peace at death. I leave you with this, bittersweet:

And, indeed, as he listened to the cries of joy rising from the town, Rieux remembered that such joy is always imperiled. He knew what those jubilant crowds did not know but could have learned from books: that the plague bacillus never dies or disappears for good; that it can lie dormant for years and years in furniture and linen-chests; that it bides its time in bedrooms, cellars, trunks, and bookshelves; and that perhaps the day would come when, for the bane and the enlightening of men, it would rouse up its rats again and send them forth to die in a happy city (287).

KK

Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach

I love it when you read a book, and it leads you to a decision.

For instance, within one chapter of reading Stiff, I decided I was going to donate my body to science. I even Tweeted about it (remember, once something hits Twitter, it cannot be refuted).

Well, I decided that if my organs cannot be salvaged, that I would like to be donated to science. For whatever cause. They can use my cadaver in car impact testings, gun testing, anatomy labs, whatever. I don't care! It's a body, and once I'm dead I have no use for it.

So, thanks Mary Roach, for writing Stiff. Now I need to get a will or something... Law-Man probably doesn't take Twitter as a serious edict.

Roach wrote this novel in order to discover something new: she discusses how she's traveled all over the world as a journalist and had seen everything five times. Then, she "began to look for the foreign lands between the cracks. Science was one such land. Science involving the dead was particularly foreign and strange and, in its repellent way, enticing" (14). This led her to study what happens to human bodies once they cease to live. And boy! What interesting things we do to them. Or decline to.

I recommend this book for anyone with morbid curiosities. Some people will likely be grossed out about this. If you don't like reading about faces being peeled back and how a body decomposes, don't read it.

This novel was written in 2003, so I am a quite behind in its coolness. For example, Roach discusses Plastination—the substitution of body fluids with plastic, which enables bodies to be preserved for eternity. And made a show out of! At press, she mentions that BodyWorlds hadn't been shown in the U.S.

In 2006 some of the Biker Ghouls stormed Vancouver, B.C. to visit the Bodyworlds exhibit. Last year it came near us in Portland, Oregon. Apparently America got over its squeamishness in the years since this book was published.

Sorry for the BodyWorlds tangent. One who likes Stiff must like BodyWorlds and vice versa. Now, other than reading this book for morbid curiosity, you could also read it to learn something. Roach not only discusses what donating a body to science could entail, but she discusses alternatives. Cremation? Burial? Getting shot into space? Why are some cultures so opposed to certain practices?

If you want to donate your body to science, check out a medical school in your state. Fill out the forms in the presence of witnesses, and you should be OK. Of course, your survivors can always decline this, even if it's your wish; therefore, you should let your family know of your intentions and how serious you are about it. Check out Living Bank for more details.

KK

Watchmen by Alan Moore/Dave Gibbons

I admit. I picked up Watchmen because I saw the trailer for the film.

At The Dark Knight's premiere, one of the previews started with a familiar song--the Smashing Pumpkin's "The Beginning is the End is the Beginning". You may think that sounds familiar... that's because "The End is the Beginning is the End" was a single off the Batman & Robin soundtrack (it also won the Pumpkins a Grammy for Best Hard Rock Performance). Anyway, do you follow? "The Beginning" was the closing song on the soundtrack, and was a bit of a reprise of "The End."

Anyhow, both Watchmen and Batman are DC properties, so we'll pretend we didn't know that they recycled a Batman and Robin song for this movie's trailer. It's really quite OK—I love to see the Pumpkins get some love.

Ok, back to my point: I read Watchmen because there is a blockbuster film coming out next year based on it. Because of this fact, and that there is a fully naked character, I decided to read the graphic novel.

My friend Matt pointed out that I committed some sort of sacrilege because it took me so long to read it. Like, I picked it up 10 days ago and just finished it last night. Sorry, man, sometimes ya just don't feel like reading.

When I finished reading it last night, I tweeted "Finished Watchmen. Not sure she can write a review..."
It's not that I didn't spend time thinking while reading the novel. I don't know what it was, but I'm just not feeling the "gettin' all intellectual" business.
To help me write this review, last night I wrote on a notecard:
WTF just happened?
Life goes on!
Seems like a big deal. Impact.
But all resumes, regardless.

The ending of the comic was quite jarring. I guess too many superhero movies have led me to believe that everybody turns out good in the end. But in this one, it is very murky. You want to think Dr. Manhattan is a good guy, because he can control, like, everything, but look what he does to Rorschach! Of course, he had to, in order to keep the cover-up in place. But why was Adrian's plan correct? Because Adrian is the smartest self-made man?

Maybe those who plotted 9/11 were thinking along the same lines as Adrian. Except they used hijacked planes, not a terrifying monster. Or when the US bombed Hiroshima and Nagasaki-we said murder 200,000 to save the world...
Anyway. I'm done thinking about it. I just can't wait to see if the book gets butchered when it's turn into a film.

I highly suggest reading it. Watchmen is extremely intelligent... and one of my favorite things to point out during reviews is relevance. And it is hella relevant!
It's a good thing for superheros—our Watchmen—to not be good through-and-through, I suppose. I shall read this again and maybe think about it a little more.

KK

Snow Falling on Cedars by David Guterson

According to Wikipedia, Snow Falling on Cedars was written by a teacher, taking 10 years to complete. The success of this book should give hope everywhere to teachers who want to be writers. But not just because it was a successful—it is also a good read.

David Guterson's novel was published in 1994, and became a huge hit, spawning a film version in 1999. The front cover gives away its superstar status, with a giant "The Award-Winning #1 Bestseller" badge.

"Oh great," I said to myself after examining the book. I came across this novel when Matt and Anna were simplifying their life and giving away books. I had heard of it, so I took it. But I had it for about almost a year before I read it. That "#1 Bestseller" just turns me away. I don't want people to think I read only bestsellers! I don't want want anyone to assume I'm a DaVinci Code fan! (Disclosure: I haven't read that novel, and I don't want to. Don't make me).

Anyway... this novel was a quick read, even though it's 460 pages long. Once I was into it, I didn't want to stop reading! The novel focuses on a murder trial in the '50s, when there was a lot of anti-Japanese racism resulting from WWII. Set on a Washington state island, the story revolves on the trial of Katsuo, who is accused of killing Carl over wanted strawberry farmland. It is easy for the citizens to get caught up in the racism, because they recall all of the Japanese citizens being interned in 1942, and many are war veterans. The internment of Japanese-Americans was a disgraceful action; this novel is a good reminder to us to not forget it. I don't think I heard about citizens being interned until I was in high school—which is pretty outrageous. Remember, kids, we study history lest we repeat it!

Which brings me to the relevance of this novel: it is really easy to read, sure, and very involving. Guterson has a gift for description: the strawberry fields, the snow, the mossy tree, each character's sex life, etc. But there is more to it than pretty words; it really makes you think about racial profiling and stereotyping. Well, Katsuo is a Kendo master, so he must been responsible for Carl's head wound.

I read that Snow Falling on Cedars is taught in many schools (but also banned in some). It is a great novel to teach for things like language, but more so for the potential discussions about racism. It's scary, because in the past seven years, America has painted all of its Arab-American citizens as potential terrorists. So, please read this novel as a reminder not to let these things happen!

KK

Hell's Angels by Hunter S. Thompson

Both Hunter S. Thompson and the Hell's Angels bring preconceived notions to mind:
Thompson was a crazy sonofabitch. He was a nutbag druggie who liked to blow things up.
The Hell's Angel's are crazy motherfuckers. Remember Altamont? They killed like 500 people while providing concert security for the Rolling Stones.

Both of these notions have some basis in reality. Thompson liked drugs and blowing things up. The Hell's Angels did provide security at Altamont, where one person was killed by an Angel (in self-defense).

It is very fitting that Thompson got close to the Angels in order to write a book, Hell's Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga (1969). This book is definitely in the vein of Gonzo journalism—Thompson spends nearly a year with the Angels, drinking, going on runs, and having close encounters with the lawmen.

Don't expect to read about some elaborate ritual where Thompson gets initiated into the gang. That doesn't happen. He just hangs around with them enough that they start trusting him (and he doesn't even ride a Harley, but a British bike!). He sees firsthand what runs are like, what parties are like, and what the members do when they aren't together. Turns out the Angels are much more tame than their reputation sells them.

Many are married with a mortgage, but some are unemployed couch-surfers. Neither is unique to the Angels—I'm sure you'll find both types in a Scrapbooking club.

But no one has quite the reputation of the Angels. So, where did this reputation come from?

Guess, c'mon...

Five seconds...












Ok, it was the press. Media is responsible for making the Angels simultaneously feared and revered. Thompson uses excerpts from articles and reports to show how this happened. You may have heard how Thompson got "stomped" out of the club—that's such a brief part of the story, it's in postscript.

Point being, don't read this book expecting to see how brutally Thompson was beat by the Angels. That is not what it is about. It's about a group of men finding common ground and forming a club. The club—and its members and their actions—get blown out of proportion by the media to become a symbol for all that is wrong with sex, drugs, and motorcycles.

Really, they aren't that bad. That's not to say they are good—they just aren't that bad.

I highly recommend reading it, especially if you haven't read anything by Thompson before. I also recommend reading it if you're looking to start a much-feared gang... everything comes down to reputation.

KK

Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins

Still Life With Woodpecker by Tom Robbins is "A sort of a love story."

There is a love story, and that is what holds all the randomness, such as redheads, Red Beards, miscarriages, cheerleaders, $20 million pyramids, sex, isolation, bombs, cocaine, Ralph Nader, and royalty together.

Did I mention Ralph Nader? If nothing else, I suggest one read this book because the protagonist has a thing for Ralph Nader. And by thing, I mean she both adores his ideas and wants to hump him.

Still Life is one of those postmodern treats where the author interacts with the reader. Robbins achieves this through occasional rants about his new electric typewriter, a Remington SL3. He isn't sure about this newfangled device: he senses "the novel of my dreams is in the Remington SL3" (ix), but he can't keep up with how fast it allows him to type. So if he gives up on the typewriter, and finishes his novel in longhand, does that mean this awesome book isn't the novel of his dreams?

I haven't read any of Robbins' work besides this, so I can't say if it gets better than this. But this book is pretty damn good. I didn't want to put it down, for a few reasons:

1. The plot is entertaining with some good twists (even if some are predictable)
2. It is naughty; definitely not for the prude
3. Non-sequitur city
4. Those of the Ginger persuasion may be controlling human fate
5. What secret is the Camel pack trying to tell us?

The main question of the novel is "What makes love stay?" Princess Leigh-Cheri really wants to know. Can an outlaw bomber help her figure it out? You may be surprised. I was expecting the Princess to be scorned by the self-proclaimed outlaw Bernard (the Woodpecker), but it didn't quite happen. Maybe outlaws are like cocaine, and that's the lesson. You know you shouldn't do it, but you can't stop yourself. Because you are addicted.

Then again, I know nothing about cocaine... and nothing about dating Outlaws. One time this guy I dated returned a bicycle to Target claiming it was broken when really, he just got sick of riding it to work... and that's the closest I've come to outlaw love.

So, back to the novel:
I recommend you read it. It is wholeheartedly enjoyable. I forgot to mention this, but there is an alien subplot.

KK

The Road by Cormac McCarthy

The Road by Cormac McCarthy: Read it.

That's pretty much all I have to say.

The Road is a Post-Apocalyptic novel that showcases the opposite of what we see in popular Post-Apocalyptic cinema: love, sympathy, empathy, trust... and other things. It follows a father and his young son, who are trying to survive on little more than love and two bullets. I am used to seeing gun battles and dramatic fights for oil or water after the Apocalypse. That's not to say that the father and son don't worry about having oil and water; they definitely do, but that isn't what drives them. They are "each the other's world entire" (6) and they are carrying the fire.

Some people don't distinguish between Post-Apocalyptic and Dystopian books or films. I think you have to: in Dystopian literature, the most alarming thing is how the government is lying to you and definitely not behaving in your best interest (1984, Soylent Green, Brave New World).

In Post-Apocalyptic literature, the most alarming thing is anarchy. There is no government to help you out; sometimes people work together towards the common good, and sometimes they don't (Mad Max series, Steel Dawn). The Road is very much in the same vein. Something catastrophic happened; the Earth became hot with melted asphalt, and is now freezing with ashy snow. Few people are now living, as most people, if they didn't die in the catastrophe, likely starved. Or, you know, were cannabalized.

This book is short, so there is no reason to avoid reading it. I will leave you with just one excerpt and no analysis (196):

Do you think that your fathers are watching? That they weigh you in their ledgerbook? Against what? There is no book and your fathers are dead in the ground.

P.S. Viggo Mortensen stars in the movie adaptation, which should be released Nov. 26, 2008. Perfect Thanksgiving movie? Huh.

P.P.S. Nick Cave did the music for aforementioned movie... sweet!

P.P.P.S. Just linking to Steel Dawn, I noticed that IMDb users give it an average score of 4.2 of 10. I think it was much better than that! I would have to watch it again to accurately score it. If one says it's a Mad Max rip-off, then, OK, at least it's a decent rip-off.