Infinite Jest

Well, so much for posting more in the New Year. Not that I made any official resolution or anything, but still. Not off to a great start on the ol' blog here. Aside from that, 2009 already feels better than 2008, I have to say. Hooray!

One thing I've accomplished in the New Year: I have finally finished David Foster Wallace's masterpiece, Infinite Jest. I began reading it back on September 17. (At 1 AM, as I noted in the comments to that post.) 112 days, to read 979 pages of text and 388 footnotes comprising an additional 97 pages. That's less than ten pages a day. Not very impressive. I blame society. But still -- I finished it!

My immediate impression on concluding Infinite Jest: brilliant, brilliant book; disappointing ending. It feels like it ends too soon, unbelievably enough for a tome of this size; it feels like there are several missing chapters (even though the book isn't strictly broken down by chapters). As petty as it is, I want greater and more explicit detail on what became of Hal, Orin, and the rest of the Incandenzas, Don Gately, Joelle van Dyne, Michael Pemulis, Remy Marathe, Ortho Stice, John Wayne, and more in between the end of the novel and the beginning (the book wraps back on itself, with a chronological gap in between).

Like I say, though, that's petty, and simplistic. I need a little time, now that I've finished, to absorb the book. (And do a little research online, a little clue-hunting, some of which has already been particularly rewarding.) I also feel a strong impulse to immediately reread it. Maybe that's part of the circular nature of the story (the whole book is packed with circular, or "annular," as DFW puts it, allusions and references -- annular: "shaped like a ring"). After all, the titular entertainment, the "Infinite Jest" of the text, is an Entertainment cartridge so powerfully seductive it is impossible to stop watching; it seems DFW intentionally structured his novel in a similar fashion, so that the reader conceivably could keep reading it in an infinite loop.

I really hope those of you who have read Infinite Jest feel like leaving some of your impressions and interpretations in the comments. I don't want to spoil any major twists or conjectures in this main entry, in case some of you plan on reading the book yourselves (and you really, really should; it is a remarkable achievement in literature, and, as dense and lengthy as it is, remarkably accessible). I'll start things off in the comments with a couple of my own observations (some of which I admittedly have gleaned from elsewhere on the internet).

One more thing: I have been struck all over again by what a dreadful shame David Foster Wallace's suicide is. The world is genuinely diminished by the absence of the manuscripts Wallace had yet to write. At least I have the next book on my reading list to anticipate: DFW's Consider the Lobster.

Infinite Jest update

I'm on page 221 of Infinite Jest. And if David Foster Wallace had not already committed suicide, I would now be fearful that David Foster Wallace was going to commit suicide.

Infinite Jest is not entirely a cry for help, but with so many characters intent on suicide, and with such deeply knowledgeable explorations of chronic depression, and with such detailed coverage of drugs, anti-depressive and otherwise, it most certainly is partly that.

It has recently come to light that Wallace was clinically depressed and on anti-depression meds for a good two decades. Reading this book, I am not at all surprised to hear that. It is still deeply sad and disappointing, but seriously, to anyone who has read this book, it can not be at all surprising.

That aside: awesome book so far!

David Foster Wallace, R.I.P.

David Foster Wallace was found dead of an apparent suicide on Friday. He was 46.


As I recently mentioned, I've never read Infinite Jest, his most famous and well-respected work (though I have read The Broom of the System and Girl with Curious Hair). I think I'll be moving it to the top of my reading list. I've tried reading it a couple of times before. What a shame that this is what will probably finally get me to finish it.

Joe R. Lansdale

Joe R. Lansdale is one of my favorite writers working today. Two of my very earliest posts on this blog were about his books. On Sunday afternoon, I attended a book signing for Lansdale's newest book, Leather Maiden. And I'm happy to say, he could not have been a nicer, cooler person.

He took some questions from the audience, which was about 25-30 people. He let us know that the next Hap and Leonard book, Vanilla Ride, will be out next year, with two others ready to go in fairly rapid succession after that, which is fantastic news for Lansdale fans. He told us about the various film adaptations of his work which never quite made it to the screen, such as a Hap and Leonard film which would have starred Josh Lucas and Don Cheadle which fell apart at the last moment. He told us Bill Paxton was looking to direct the film version of one of his books (I forget which, but it was either The Bottoms or Cold in July, I think). And he told some crazy, hilarious stories, illustrating that some of the weirder things he writes about have a basis in real life.

He then read from the first three chapters in the new book, which I can't wait to get started on -- equally funny and intriguing, as usual. And finally he invited people to get their books signed.

I brought two of his novels from home for him to sign, plus the new book which I bought that day, as well as about twenty of his comics (primarily his work with Timothy Truman -- all the Jonah Hex stuff, and The Lone Ranger and Tonto mini-series). I didn't expect he'd have time to get to all the comics; in fact, I was just hoping he'd have time to sign three or four key issues. But he grabbed the whole bundle and signed everything. He loved signing stuff, he said -- that's what he was there for! (And yes, I waited until everyone else had gone first, so I didn't tie up the line. I'm considerate!)

During the Q&A, I had mentioned how hard it was to find some of his earlier books. For example, I've been searching for ages, but his first Hap and Leonard book, Savage Season, is just impossible to find, new, used, or even at a library. He said that Vintage would be reissuing the first six books starting next year -- again, great news for Lansdale fans. But then he also said if I wanted to stick around after the signing, when his wife came to pick him up, he had a whole trunk full of his old books for sale. (And no, he doesn't just drive around with a trunk full of books all the time -- at least, I don't think he does; he was stocked up because he had been at ArmadilloCon earlier that day.)

Sadly, it turned out I didn't have any cash on me at the moment. And here's how cool this guy is: he said, "Tell you what, I'll give you my address, and you can just mail the payment to me later." Who does that? Who would trust a random fan like that? That blew my mind. How incredibly generous. Too bad he's never getting his money!! (Actually, I ran across the street to an ATM. As much as I appreciated his offer, I felt it would be impolite to make him wait on a check from me like that. I'm considerate, damn it!)

So, with the help of his very sweet wife, and his lovely daughter (country singer Kasey Lansdale), we dug through the boxes in his car and found hardback copies of the first three Hap and Leonard novels, two of which, Savage Season and Mucho Mojo, I've never been able to read before. I also picked up a copy of the aforementioned Cold in July, another of his best I could never track down. And I got to pick up all four for well under the cover price. I call that a bargain. I also call it a belated birthday present to myself. I'm worth it.

Great writer, great guy, great day. If you haven't read anything by Lansdale yet (or, at the very least, watched Bubba Ho-Tep, which is based on one of his stories), you're missing out.

POTPOURRI

I've been going very slowly through the Essential Amazing Spider-Man Vol. 6 collection, because, despite the fact that I think these stories may represent the height of Spidey's comic book popularity, encompassing many landmark events (like Gwen Stacy's death and the introduction of the Punisher), and may well be the era during which most long-term comics fans were first introduced to the character (I know the first issues I ever read as a kid are contained in this book)... where was I going with this?

Oh, yeah, despite how popular and iconic these issues are, they are just horribly, horribly, horribly written. Gerry Conway has to be one of the very worst writers in the history of comics. And I say that even with the painful memories of Todd McFarlane's Spider-Man still poisoning some small corner of my mind.

But what's worse, the way Conway writes Spider-Man, Spidey comes off as a world class asshole. He's always snubbing his friends, insulting Mary Jane when she's trying to cheer him up, abandoning his best friend Harry, who's in heroin withdrawal and whose father has recently been killed. But what's more, rather than stopping crime, he exacerbates it, actively preventing super-villains from curing themselves of their powers.

In two comics released the very same month (cover dated June, 1974), Amazing Spider-Man #133 and Giant-Size Super-Heroes featuring Spider-Man #1, Conway's Spider-Man stops Molten Man and Morbius (respectively) from obtaining the potential cure for their conditions.

In the former, Spider-Man basically pieces together what the Molten Man has been trying to do (gather ingredients needed to recreate what originally made him the Molten Man in an effort to halt the radioactive decay of his body -- radiation which, by the way, is far more deadly than he ever was in his pre-decaying state), but still engages him in battle, endangering police and other innocent bystanders along the way. (In one scene, Spidey actually clobbers two policemen who confront him, sending them into unconsciousness with, "Pleasant dreams... creeps!") As the Molten Man's death approaches, he cries,

"I only needed time--! Time to reverse the deterioration-- but Spider-Man wouldn't stop hounding me! [...] Now you've attacked me, when I was so close to success! I had all the elements I needed to cure myself-- all but one, and that one I stole this evening--! If I'd escaped, I could have rediscovered the formula that created this accursed golden shell... I could have saved myself if it hadn't been for--"

And what is Spider-Man's thoughtful response? "Sure you could have, Raxton-- and my name's Santa Claus!" What a Spider-Dick. Oh, by the way, in the ensuing fight, Spidey throws the Molten Man's precious ingredients into the river, which the Molten Man dives after; upon hitting the freezing water, the Molten Man explodes. Nice. Real nice.

In Giant-Size Etc., Morbius, "the Living Vampire," is trying to reach Professor Ward, a hematologist who has "developed a process to completely replace a person's blood". Clearly, Morbius is seeking a cure for himself. When he enters the professor's lab, he says, "I've been in Hell, Professor Ward... and I've come to you to release me!" Enter Spider-Man, who jumps in, fists swinging, rather than letting the completely non-threatening, non-violent Morbius use the prof's knowledge to help himself. In the fight, the professor's lab equipment is destroyed, leading a stricken Morbius to lament,

"Ward said that without it, his experiment was useless-- [...] You've caused me to destroy what might be my last chance, Spider-Man..."

And Morbius flees. But it turns out the professor's equipment is not destroyed; Spidey switched out the real stuff with spare parts. He planned not only to prevent Morbius from obtaining a cure, but also to make him lose all hope that a cure might ever be found. And then he blithely allowed Morbius to escape. In fact, he must have expected Morbius to escape; if he thought he could capture him, the elaborate ruse wouldn't have been needed. Dude! What is the point? Rather than cure him, or catch him, you deprive him of hope and set him loose? That won't cause any trouble, I'm sure. Dumbass.

---

In the past couple days this site has been getting scads of hits from Johanna's Cognitive Dissonance. And I can't figure out why. I assumed she had linked to me (possibly to my year-end TV roundup, which seriously, that took a long time, do me a solid and at least skim it if you haven't already, and what, are you allergic to commenting?), but nope. No link, other than the sidebar. I guess she just gets a ton of traffic that also visits her sidebar links. Well, regardless of the reason: sweet. Hell, why don't you go check out her site when you're done here? Very nice comics reviews and links to be found there!

---

I'm a little hesitant to continue the top ten lists this week, because for one thing, other than TV, I'm not sure what other field I could really make a definitive list for. I could go through all the movies I've seen this year (like Monty just did), but 1) I haven't seen all that many, and 2) I didn't see anything out of the ordinary. I mostly saw mainstream, blockbuster-type fare. Even Fahrenheit 9/11 was a blockbuster of sorts.

Books? I doubt I've read many more than ten books total this year. (Exclude children's books, like the Lemony Snicket stuff, and I'm probably down to single digits.) I've been very lax about my non-comic reading. I still haven't read that last damn Dark Tower book! I've only been waiting for the conclusion to the series for twenty years; what the hell is keeping me from getting to it?

And speaking of comics, I guess I could cobble some kind of list together, but I think I don't read as wide a variety of comics as I should to make a very interesting list, and I don't really have the recall to single out specific issues or landmarks from longer than about a month ago. I could name Street Angel and Eightball and American Elf and She-Hulk and Ex Machina and Girl Genius and Fables and We3 and Scurvy Dogs (and indeed I will, should I crack down and get to that list), but I can barely remember what happened last month in Y: The Last Man, let alone recall comics highlights from January. I'm a poor excuse for a comics fan.

Hey, I think I may just have written my top ten comics list, right there. Counting Y... yep, that's ten. Welp, that was easier than I thought! What, I should maybe do more commentary on those titles? Okay, maybe I will have a list to post tomorrow, after all.

BOOKS: Recent reading

Billie Letts, The Honk and Holler Opening Soon: Total chick flick of a book. Which makes sense, since the author also wrote the book that the Ashley Judd/Natalie Portman chick flick Where the Heart Is was based on. The women are so dramatically, emotionally overwrought. My sister killed herself, I had an abortion, I just can't trust myself to be happy anymore!! The men are damaged, evil, or irrelevant. And everybody in this tiny Oklahoma town is so goddam quirky. I picked up this book (for free, by the way) because I thought the title was interesting. I should've stopped at the cover.

It's one of those books that, by the time you realize it's not very good, and it ain't getting better, you're already far enough into it that you might as well finish. I only got that far because it was the only book I had to read on Thanksgiving vacation. You can see by how long it took me to finish, it wasn't a high priority.

Mickey Spillane, Survival... Zero!: I've never read a Mike Hammer book before, never even seen the movie for I, the Jury (either version). All I knew of Mike Hammer was what I saw in the Stacy Keach TV show. And it's about what I expected. Sex, violence, macho bullshit. It's kind of funny to sample what was once considered so shocking and racy. Pretty mild, even for thirty years ago. (It was published in 1970, a late entry in the series; presumably the earlier books, from the '40s and '50s, were more ahead of their times.) The book's somewhat entertaining just for the hard-boiled dialogue and narration, but I get the feeling even for this brand of pulp fiction, this is a lesser entry.

Lemony Snicket, The Slippery Slope: I love these books. (Too bad the movie is getting mixed reviews.) A few fortunate things happen for our orphans in this book -- the long presumed dead third Quagmire triplet turns up, and Violet discovers romantic feelings for him; two of Count Olaf's henchwomen abandon him and his wicked ways; a few more clues to the VFD mystery are gathered -- but of course it all ends in despair. Good fun! I've got The Grim Grotto ready to go next.

He's just not that into you!

So I was watching Oprah last night, 'cause that's what you do when you come home drunk at 1 AM. And her guest was Greg Behrendt, who is a hilarious stand-up comedian -- or used to be, I guess. Then he started writing for Sex and the City, and now he's written a self-help book based around a line from that show: He's Just Not That Into You: The No-Excuses Truth to Understanding Guys.

Okay, first of all, I thought it was odd that Greg was the only one onstage with Oprah, since the book was co-written with a woman named Liz Tuccillo. Liz was actually in the audience, and Oprah briefly spoke to her, but primarily she was dealing with Greg. I guess she wanted to have just the guy by her side, so he could be the one dealing out the tough love. After all, she worships tough-love men. Remember, she's the one responsible for inflicting Dr. Phil on America. That son of a bitch Dr. Phil! Oh how I hate him.

But I digress.

Oh, and second: why are we not done with Sex and the City now?? The goddam show is cancelled already! There's a book based on a line from it, Oprah's talking about the book and showing clips from the show, and there's that horrible harpy Sarah Jessica Parker in all those freaking Gap ads. That show's another one to file under my list of things I don't get. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: with Sex and the City, HBO was somehow able to create a show so bad that no amount of gratuitous nudity could make me watch. That's pretty damn bad.

Anyway.

The Oprah show primarily consisted of various audience members telling their stories of woe: my boyfriend is great but. I like this guy but. And then Oprah would smugly crow, "He's just not that into you!!"

Here's what I was waiting for -- and this would've been so ingenious, I can't believe Greg or one of the audience members didn't say this, it would've been so frickin' great -- and I didn't catch the last 15 minutes, so maybe it did happen, but I seriously doubt it -- I wanted someone to say:

So, Oprah, has Stedman married you yet? No? Well, guess what, honey!

HE'S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU!!!

I don't get it

Here's a few things I don't get, popularity-wise:

MUSIC

Radiohead: God, they're boring! Boring, boring, boring!! I listen to all these people saying, "They're geniuses!" and I just wonder, What the hell are you listening to? Because I fell asleep halfway through the song. Which song? Any of them. But especially "Karma Police." That's more sleep-inducing than two bottles of Nyquil. See also: Modest Mouse.

TV

American Idol: Why does everyone in America watch this travesty? "I just watch it to make fun of it." LIAR!! I know you love it. I just don't know why. "We are unsatisfied with your personal preferences in musical stardom. We will tell you who to worship." "Yes, masters. Clay Aiken is a delightful pixie, and not at all a disturbing, charmless little freak."

ER and West Wing: They're done, people. Let them die.

The Simple Life: And Paris Hilton, in general. In fact, this whole "rich girl" trend. Why we should elevate, as David Cross so memorably calls them, "these rich, giggling, country western singers" (only he didn't say "ry western singer") to icon status just boggles my mind. They deserve nothing but scorn and loathing, and yet our culture celebrates and rewards them. There is very little in pop culture that makes me think, maybe we'd be better off without pop culture in its entirety (this is a pop culture blog, after all), but Paris Hilton and her ilk are right up there.

BOOKS

The Da Vinci Code: Now, I haven't read the book, so this is somewhat uninformed. But if I can't make uninformed snap judgments, why should I even have a blog? So I've paged through this thing at the store a couple times, and it looks like a decent enough mystery/thriller, but this is ridiculous. You know what I think? I think this is a book that makes people think they're smart for reading it -- the kind of smart that doesn't hurt your head, or require much actual thinking at all. And I think it's a book people feel required to read specifically because of its massive popularity, not because of any desire they have to crack a good book. It's got just enough historical and religious mumbo-jumbo in it to make people praise it far beyond its basic mystery/thriller worth. I don't fault the people who say, "Yeah, it was a fun read." But anyone who says, "This is the best book I've ever read," probably hasn't read a book since The Bridges of Madison County.

MOVIES

My Big Fat Boring Stupid Unfunny Greek Wedding: Well, the title pretty much sums it up. I've bitched about this movie before, but I'll say it again: literally the only time I laughed during the entire film is at the wedding, when the mother of the groom asks, "What are they saying?" and the father of the groom says, "I don't know -- it's all Greek to me!" That lame, corny old joke sparkled like a gem in the midst of the other sub-sitcom level "humor". I didn't find any of her family to be wacky or impish or adorable -- I found them boring at best, irritating as hell at worst. Nia Vardalos is not cute or charming. She's a bug-eyed ham, with absolutely no charisma. I hate this movie.

BOOKS: The Complete Peanuts 1953-1954

The Complete Peanuts 1953-1954 is the greatest book I've read since The Complete Peanuts 1950-1952.

There are some flaws with the book. The reproduction on some of the strips is unavoidably of very poor quality; pristine strips from this era, most of which were never reprinted in book form, are difficult to find. In fact, as a note in the back of the book indicates, it was completely impossible to find the top tier of one Sunday strip. Book designer Seth had to create it from scratch. When I read that, I thought it meant he had to redraw it from a copy of the strip that was so bad they couldn't print it, but no -- those original panels really no longer exist, and Seth pieced together elements from other Schulz originals to make a passable fake. (It's a golfing strip, and if you're paying close attention, you can find the pieces he cobbled together on the page in other golfing strips throughout the book, such as the golf ball rolling in the hole with a "PLUNK!")

In these early strips, Peanuts had yet to fall into the artistic routine of later years. The art is much more experimental; scenes are shown from multiple interesting angles, rather than the straight-ahead or 90-degree profile that became the trademark of the strip. And Schulz often meshed different artistic styles in the same strip; in a series of strips involving Lucy entering a golf tournament, the adults in the crowd (grown-ups in a Peanuts strip!!) were drawn with much more realism and detail than the cartoonish children. Same with Snoopy and birds; the dog is very cartoonish (though much less so than he would become), and the birds are very realistic -- no Woodstock-type birds in these early years.

The characters and their brand of humor is still developing here. Charlie Brown is mischievous and egotistical as frequently as he is insecure; he's not the lovable loser in all things (he even scores a run in baseball), but he's getting there. Linus is still crawling, but he gets his security blanket in this volume (which Charlie Brown calls a "security and happiness blanket"). Pig-Pen first appears, as does the loud-talking Charlotte Braun, whom I had never heard of before reading this book -- I guess she didn't stick around long. And Lucy has taken center stage, with her fuss-budget personality blooming, pushing Violet, Patty, and especially Shermy to the sidelines. And you can see the designs of the characters becoming finalized toward the end of the book. Most noticeably, Charlie Brown's expression becomes much less wide-eyed and cherubic.

As for the humor -- it still needs some work. There are an awful lot of running gags, most of which fall flat. Charlie Brown is a budding comic strip artist, who just can't get Schroeder to appreciate his humor. Snoopy is baffled by some object for four wordless panels. Lucy counts stars, or raindrops. But even she couldn't count the number of strips in which she complains about something Charlie Brown is bringing her, only to wind up with that something on her head. The mud pie gags are still there, but they begin fading out toward the end of the book, to be replaced by house-of-cards gags. Writing on fences pops up a great deal, as do building blocks. And when frustrated by something, Charlie Brown is more likely to say, "That's the way it goes," rather than "Rats!" (I don't think "Good grief!" has even entered his vocabulary yet.)

But in the final couple months collected here, you can see the beginning of the classic age of Peanuts. In the next couple years, the strip would solidify its format, and take off in popularity, and Schulz would commence a good twenty, twenty-five years of pure comic brilliance. Mid-50s to late-70s, that was the peak of Peanuts, which in my mind means the peak of all comic strips. I can't wait for the next volume (scheduled for April 2005).

BOOKS: Lowered Expectations

I think the missing ingredient in better enjoying the two books I read this week is lowered expectations.

For example, the first book was called Heroics for Beginners, by John Moore. It's a comic fantasy; not quite Terry Pratchett, more like Robert Asprin, or Craig Shaw Gardner. Light comic fantasy. How high could my expectations have been?

Well, back in college, I read a book by John Moore called Slay and Rescue, and it was very funny indeed. I decided this author was going to be one to keep an eye on for frequent entertainment. I figured he'd be cranking out two or three books a year, like the above-mentioned Asprin or Gardner. Or Pratchett, even. Instead, he didn't publish another book until Heroics, twelve years later. After twelve years, I thought, this had better be one hell of a book.

It was all right. It's about a prince who has to infiltrate an Evil Overlord's fortress with only the Handbook of Practical Heroics (kind of a Heroes for Dummies) to guide him. It's often hilarious in its deconstruction of the villain's obligations to tradition (he has to learn a menacing laugh, and shake his fists in the air in the pose called "milking the giant cow"), and the roles his lead minion and sexy assistant play (the minion is supposed to be tricked and the assistant seduced by the hero; things go wrong when one hero tricks the assistant and seduces the minion). It's a quick, funny, enjoyable satire of heroic conventions. But I might've liked it more if I hadn't been waiting twelve years for it. Hopefully Moore's next book will be out before 2016.

The other book is Bill Bryson's I'm a Stranger Here Myself: Notes on Returning to America After 20 Years Away. I picked it up at the used bookstore after reading an online review raving about how hilarious Bryson was; further, at the store, the owner (I think) told me Bryson was far better than David Sedaris. (Then again, he also told me, in Comic Book Guy-like earnestness, that Bryson was for smart people and Sedaris was not, even after he had asked me if I liked Sedaris and I had told him yes. That's the new ownership of Ojai's Bart's Books, folks: douchebaggery on parade!)

Bryson is no Sedaris. Bryson is not even Dave Barry. He's neither as incisively brilliant nor as gut-bustingly hilarious as had been suggested to me. But he is smart, and he is funny. He's a comedic travel memoirist, is perhaps the best way to describe him; he's written about the Appalachian Trail, and small-town America, and of course England, where he spent those "20 Years Away". I'm a Stranger Here Myself collects the columns he wrote on his return to the U.S., and is filled with many sharp and funny observations about American life we natives have grown to take for granted, like the surprising (to him) benevolence of Post Office workers toward their customers, or the general over-emphasis on signs and rules. In one passage, he ignores a "Please Wait to Be Seated" sign:

After a couple of minutes, the hostess... came up to me and said in a level tone, "I see you've seated yourself."

"Yup," I replied proudly. "Dressed myself too."

...She sighed. "Well, the server in this section is very busy, so you may have to wait a while for her to get to you."

There was no other customer within fifty feet, but that wasn't the point. The point was that I had disregarded a posted notice and would have to serve a small sentence in purgatory in consequence.

I'm enjoying this book a lot, and will most likely seek out other books by Bryson, but I think I'd have an even higher impression of him if I hadn't had my expectations raised.

Lowered expectations, by the way, are also key to the enjoyment of this blog.

Coming Attractions

This is more a note to myself than for any of you, but here's what I'm planning on talking about in the days to come.

---

Inspired by Rick and his month-long tribute to his favorite horror movies, I'm going to re-watch some of the all-time worst horror movies. And frankly, the fear I'm experiencing thinking of having to watch House of 1,000 Corpses again is far more acute than any good horror movie could ever generate. Or House of the Dead, which, as I may have recently mentioned, is not just the worst movie ever, it's the worst anything ever. Hell, I may as well stick with the theme and watch House on Haunted Hill (the remake), House II: The Second Story, and, I don't know, Road House, just to make it easier to pick titles.

---

More TV. Shocka! Specifically Desperate Housewives and Boston Legal.

---

All the damn books I've bought recently. Stephen King's The Dark Tower, The Daily Show's America (The Book), John Moore's comic fantasy Heroics for Beginners, McSweeney's Thrilling Tales collection (I've had that one for a while, but just recently started reading it)... it would be nice if I actually finished one of these books. Then I could write about it.

---

That applies to comic TPBs, too. I still haven't finished the giant Bone collection. In fact (brace yourself), I still haven't finished Blankets. I read the first dozen pages or so, set it aside for a moment, and then never picked it up again. I need to get on that.

---

And, oh... everything.

BOOKS: A Hat Full of Sky

Terry Pratchett's A Hat Full of Sky, the sequel to last year's The Wee Free Men, is "a young readers novel of Discworld". Which, as far as I can tell, simply means, "a novel of Discworld that doesn't use the words 'arse' or 'bastard'". It's not like the usual Discworld novels are horribly profane; anything even remotely dirty is usually disguised with innuendo, anyway.

The young readers Discworld books (three, so far) do suffer slightly from a smaller scope, though. They involve far fewer characters than usual, fewer plot threads, and fewer digressions. Especially these last two books, which both feature Tiffany Aching, a young witch-in-training. They're basically a straight shot through from introduction of problem to solution of said problem. A Hat Full of Sky more so than The Wee Free Men, because Men at least had to take the time to introduce both Tiffany and the Nac Mac Feegle (the Wee Free Men of the title), tiny belligerent fairy creatures which aid Tiffany in her troubles.

In Hat, the enemy is a Hiver, a non-corporeal intelligence which takes over the minds of powerful creatures and people -- like, say, a young witch-in-training. But the book never really succeeds in making the Hiver a credible threat. It's defeated fairly early in the story, with relatively little difficulty. And then the story drags on, and the Hiver has to be defeated again, but in a different way. And then the story drags on after that, with a long wrap-up sequence at the Witch Trials (a competition, not a burning) and beyond, delving a little too tediously into the nature of being a witch, ground which Pratchett has tread many times before.

The book was enjoyable enough (no Discworld book has ever been bad), with several good laughs, and Granny Weatherwax, a great recurring Discworld character, makes an extended appearance. But the book feels like a contract fulfillment more than anything else, padded with rehashed ideas and themes from other Discworld books, including Wee Free Men. It was too soon to revisit Tiffany, although the Nac Mac Feegle were every bit as entertaining as last time out (even without the return of my favorite, Not-as-big-as-medium-sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-wee-Jock-Jock). A lesser but still readable entry in the series.

BOOKS: Monstrous Regiment, The Wee Free Men

Have you ever been reading a book, and enjoying it a great deal, but then, when you set it down one night, you feel absolutely no desire to pick it up again the next day?

That's happened to me with Lolita, which thankfully I eventually forced myself to pick up again and finish, and Infinite Jest, which maybe someday before I die I might get back into. But I never thought it would happen to me with Terry Pratchett's Discworld, the most entertaining series of books I've ever read. Especially not two books back-to-back.

The first was Monstrous Regiment, what you might call a proper entry in the series, about a woman who disguises herself as a man to join the army, and discovers that she's not the only one to do so. It was very funny, with even more than the usual complement of colorful characters (a troll, a vampire, a zombie, a werewolf, an Igor), and a bevy of satisfying confrontations and resolutions, and it featured Commander Vimes, perhaps my favorite recurring character in the Discworld universe. And yet, somehow, I set the book down and didn't pick it up again for months.

The second was The Wee Free Men, which I bought the week it came out, in April 2003, and just finished tonight. The delay in finishing is all the more embarrassing when you consider this is the second of Pratchett's Discworld books for children. It took me fifteen months to finish a children's book.

Not that I spent fifteen months reading it. It took about a week, with a fifteen-month pause in the middle. I can't explain why, but again, I just set it down and couldn't pick it back up. It's a fun book, about a young girl, Tiffany, a witch-in-the-making whose brother is kidnapped by the Queen of the Fairies. She must rescue him with the help of the Wee Free Men -- the pixies, here called the "pictsies", tiny blue belligerent creatures who accept Tiffany as their leader. The pictsies are the most entertaining part of the book, with names like Rob Anybody and Daft Wullie and (my favorite) Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock, and their thieving, drinking, fighting ways accented by their deep and sometimes unintelligible Scottish burr.

I love Terry Pratchett, and I love Discworld. I can't understand why I'm having such troubles finishing his books of late. Maybe it's because I've slowed down on all my reading; the internet's probably at least partly to blame for that. After spending an hour or two online (which I do most every day), I'm more inclined to want to rest my eyes than pick up a book. Also, I blame TiVo. Sweet, wonderful TiVo. You should see a list of the books I've started and not yet finished, or, worse, bought and never even opened.

There's a new Pratchett book out right now, A Hat Full of Sky, which is apparently the sequel to The Wee Free Men. I'll pick it up soon -- I have to; as slow a reader as I may be these days, and as many books as I have stockpiled, Pratchett is still a must-buy. I just hope I finish it sometime this year.

BOOKS: The Pleasure of My Company

Better late than never, yesterday's promised book review:

If pirates are the new monkeys, then mentally-challenged savants are the new pirates. Released on the heels of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, about an autistic math genius turned sleuth, Steve Martin's (yes, that Steve Martin) novella The Pleasure of My Company chronicles the life of Daniel Pecan Cambridge, pathological liar, OCD sufferer, math genius (he creates giant magic squares to help calm his nerves), and loner.

Daniel is a prisoner of his compulsions. He can scarcely leave his apartment for fear of having to cross a curb (curbs are highly illogical to him, and thus highly forbidding), and his relationships with people are nearly non-existent (he even ruins his chance at a sexual encounter with his upstairs neighbor by leaving her stranded in the bedroom while he makes sure the wattage of all the lit light bulbs in his apartment adds up to 1125). And the relationships he does have are riddled with fabrications and fantasies. He convinces himself he is in love with Zandy, the woman who fills his prescriptions at Rite-Aid; Elizabeth, the realtor handling the apartment building across the street; and Clarissa, the student therapist who visits him weekly.

After constructing an elaborate relationship with Elizabeth in his head, Daniel finally arranges to meet her, but as his mental tics manifest, Elizabeth becomes disgusted. Daniel assures himself (only half-jokingly) that he can't be held responsible for his failure:

...Elizabeth was at fault here. She had destroyed whatever was between us by making a profound gaffe: She met me.

But that illusion won't hold; he later admits to himself, apropos of the distance his mental disorders force him to create: "There are few takers for the quiet heart."

The book, and his relationship with Clarissa, both take a surprising turn when she unexpectedly shows up at his apartment:

..."Could I ask you a favor?" The request held such exasperation that I worried she had used up all the reserve exasperation she might need on some other occasion.

Clarissa is having troubles with her abusive ex-husband, and needs to leave her baby son, Teddy, with Daniel while she deals with things. She instinctively knows what the reader has come to learn, that despite the lies he can't control, Daniel is a trustworthy person. And so Daniel, whose world is ruled by logic, is suddenly in charge of a highly illogical being. The neuroses which have kept him locked up are challenged by Teddy, and this first step leads him on a greater journey outside of himself.

Martin is no Hollywood opportunist, publishing a book just because his name recognition allows him the luxury to do so. He's a gifted writer, as those who have read his previous novella, Shopgirl, already know. His dialogue is humorous, sad, sweet, and real, and his descriptive prose brightens even the mundanity of Rite-Aid:

The merchandise inside broke the light like a million prisms. Candy bars, laid out like organ keys, glistened in their foil wrappers. Tiers of detergent boxes bore concentric circles of vibrating color. The tiny selection of pots and pans reflected elongated sideshow images. Green rubber gloves dangled from metal racks like a Duchamp, and behind it all was Zandy's yellow hair, which moved like a sun, rising and setting over the horizon of ointments and salves.

The Pleasure of My Company is a wonderful book, smart, subtle, funny and wise, deeply observant of human nature, its triumphs and failures.

POTPOURRI

TV: What The Amazing Race is lacking in teams to root for this year, it's more than making up for in teams to hate, which is just as fun. Charla and Mirna are on the top of my list: little person Charla for constantly insisting how strong and independent she is, then manipulating others into feeling sorry for her and helping her, and complaining when they don't, and Mirna for being such a bloody victim, such a martyr. Everything that goes wrong happens because other people are out to get her, because something is being done to her, as opposed to simply resulting from her own weakness and incompetence. "Now we're lost, because we trusted somebody," she said in last night's episode. No, you're lost because you were driving the lead car and you were stupid enough to miss the turn. How is that the fault of the car following you, whose driver did make the right turn? Answer: it's NOT! Ya freak.

Also, I'm sick to death of Mirna yelling at her cousin, "Come on Charla, this is a race, Charla, hurry up, Charla!" She is hurrying! Her legs are half the length of yours, you dumbass!

Then there's Chip and Kim. Chip started out seeming like such a sweetheart, but turned into a snake in the second episode. He sabotaged Kami and Karli by jumping into their cab and refusing to get out until another cab arrived for his team. And now he's got the nerve to trash talk about them, as though they were at fault. What a jackass.

And the pizza brothers, Marshall and Lance: at first look, I hoped they would be like the first season's Kevin and Drew, wise-cracking fun-lovers. Instead, they make offensive remarks about women drivers and the native people: "Useless foreigners!" Check your passport, chump: you're the foreigner, and your inability to communicate with the locals doesn't make them useless.

I just hate so many of these people. Which means the Amazing Race's casting directors have done their job again! Way to go!

COMICS: All the foofaraw over Identity Crisis has almost made me want to pick it up. Almost. Because just when I think it sounds interesting or controversial enough for me to check out, I remember, Oh yeah, I couldn't care less about the Elongated Man. Killing off his wife is like killing off Dr. Marvin Monroe on The Simpsons: nobody cared about him, nobody missed him, and after enough time had passed, he came back from the dead anyway. (Or as was said of Monty Burns: "His condition was upgraded to 'alive'.")

BOOKS: I actually will have a proper Books post to make later tonight, but it might be fairly late, since tonight is trivia night at the local sports bar. And I can't miss that. One minute before midnight is still keeping to the schedule!

TV AGAIN: Don't forget to tune into Denis Leary's firefighter comedy/drama Rescue Me on FX tonight. Even if you're not otherwise inclined to watch a Denis Leary show, just think of FX's record with original programming so far: The Shield, Nip/Tuck, and, in my opinion, the best new show of 2003 (though sadly prematurely cancelled), Lucky. I think that puts the chances for Rescue Me being a keeper pretty high, don't you?

BOOKS: I got nothing.

I think I'm going to have to rejigger my posting schedule, because I just don't read fast enough anymore to have a new book to write about every week.

This week, I could write about Captains Outrageous, which I'm almost finished with, but since I already wrote about it, that would be a tad redundant. And repetitive. And it would say the same thing over again. And it would be redundant, too.

Or I could write about the Steve Martin book I picked up at the library this week, The Pleasure of My Company, but I haven't read it yet, despite the fact it's only, like, 12 pages long. Seriously, it's short. But I can barely read six comic books in one day anymore, let alone a whole novel (like I used to).

So I can talk a little about Martin's last novel, Shopgirl, which I have read, and then I'll talk about the changes I'm thinking of making to this site.

Mostly what I remember about Shopgirl was how funny it wasn't. There were more than a few humorous lines and scenes, but the overall feeling I got from it was one of melancholy. Love didn't seem to work for any of its characters, and frankly, I felt a little concerned for Steve Martin. After all, Anne Heche dumped him for Ellen Degeneres. That's enough to destroy any man's hopes for true love.

(Tangent: I wonder if he and Ellen have ever talked about Anne. I mean, he drove her to the other team, and she drove her right back. There can't be an awful lot of people in the world who have shared an experience like that. Maybe they have meetings with Lou Diamond Phillips, whom Julie Cypher left to be with Melissa Etheridge.)

Also, I was shocked at the sexual explicitness of Shopgirl. I've grown to think of Steve Martin as an almost asexual character, like Gilligan. As disturbing as it would be to picture Gilligan having a three-way with Ginger and Mary Ann, so was it disturbing to read sex scenes written by Steve Martin. As disturbing as it was to watch him participate in a sex scene with Helena Bonham-Carter in Novocaine.

Even more disturbing: my mother wanted to borrow the book when I was done. She was thinking, "Oh, Steve Martin, he's a silly fella." Meanwhile, he had written an unexpectedly dark and sexually frank book. I don't know about your relationship with your mother, but I was not going to be responsible for giving her that book. She kept asking if I had finished it, and I kept saying, "Nope, not yet!" even though I had finished it in a day and a half. I stalled long enough that I had to return the book to the library. "Sorry, I guess you'll have to check it out yourself!" I don't know if she ever did. I kind of hope not.

---

So, what to do with my blog if Wednesdays are no longer book days? It's a little early in my blog's existence to have an identity crisis, yet here we are. I think I may either open the "books" entry to comic book trade paperbacks as well, of which I have far too many for my own good. Or turn it into a grab bag kind of day -- books one week, music or art or whatever the next. Already I post a variety of different items on different days, but I wanted this blog to have an agenda of at least one lengthy post on one particular predetermined aspect of pop culture every weekday. I think I'm going to have to concede defeat on the book posts for the immediate future.

I'll sleep on it tonight. More contemplation tomorrow.

BOOKS: One for the Money; Captains Outrageous

I'm in the middle of two books right now, so here's two half reviews.

The first is Janet Evanovich's One for the Money, the first Stephanie Plum mystery. I like how Plum starts out from square one; she becomes a bounty hunter basically because she can't find any other job, and she has to learn as she goes, which means she makes a lot of mistakes. And it doesn't help her ego any that she gets rescued from her most severe peril by the guy she's supposed to be arresting.

Plum is flat broke (her car has been repossessed, and for breakfast she has the only thing in her fridge, one bottle of beer), but she's tough, foul-mouthed, sharp (it doesn't hurt that she seems to know everyone in New Jersey -- and their mothers), and entertaining. I have no idea how her character progresses in later novels -- whether she remains a bounty hunter, or becomes a more traditional detective -- but I have a feeling I'll find out. It's a good read, good enough to want more.

The other book is Joe R. Lansdale's Captains Outrageous, which I just bought yesterday. I'm reading it now instead of the Plum book (but that's only fair, because I started reading the Plum book to get a break from Neal Stephenson's Quicksilver -- and, if I may go off on a tangent, here, where the hell is the paperback version of Quicksilver? The second book of Stephenson's Baroque Cycle trilogy is out in hardback now, but according to Amazon, the paperback of the first book isn't coming out till October. What gives? I got Quicksilver from the library, but there's no way I'm gonna finish it before it's due back. I'd like to buy it, but not at hardback prices. Irritating).

Captains Outrageous is the sixth book in the Hap and Leonard series. I recently finished Bad Chili, the fourth in the series. Why'd I start with #4 and #6? Because #4 was the only one at the library, and #6 was the only one at Barnes & Noble. The supply ain't meeting my demand. And I do demand the other books, because Captains Outrageous is as great as Bad Chili.

The first chapter opens with Hap and Leonard as security guards at a chicken plant, and Lansdale's laidback humor is in full evidence:

     "Any chickens try to break out?" I asked.
     "Nope. None tried to break in either. How about on your side? Any trouble?"...
     "No chicken problems. I saw a suspicious wood rat out by the trees, but he didn't want any part of me."
     "Well, I can see that."

When they get going on what anatomical properties Hap (straight) and Leonard (gay) like in their partners, I laughed so much the people in Barnes & Noble (where I read the first few pages) thought I was crazy.

The second chapter shifts gears, and it left me slack-jawed and breathless at its sudden shocking brutality. Hap finds a man savagely beating a woman in the woods and tries to subdue him, but the man is out of his mind on drugs and near-unstoppable. And the third chapter, with Hap meeting the father of the woman in the woods, had me almost in tears.

From hysterics to horror to heartbreak in 25 pages. That's damn good writing. And that's before the real story even begins.

Lansdale has a gift for storytelling, and I couldn't recommend him more highly. This series especially, if you can handle a little rough dialogue and a little rough violence: you've got to give it a try.

BOOKS: Joe R. Lansdale

I had never read any Joe R. Lansdale before two weeks ago, and brother, have I been missing out.

Actually, that's a lie. I've read his comic book collaborations with artist Timothy Truman, of whom I was a fan from such books as Grimjack and Scout. Their works together have included a Lone Ranger and Tonto mini-series, and three Jonah Hex mini-series (one of which got them sued by Johnny and Edgar Winters).

I greatly enjoyed the Old West as portrayed in these comics. This wasn't the cleaned-up Old West of John Wayne films, nor even the somewhat darker version in more recent, "revisionist" Westerns such as Unforgiven or Tombstone. This was closer to Sergio Leone's classic Spaghetti Westerns, where dirty people had ugly teeth and uglier morals. Of course I loved the art, but the writing was also fantastic, and while I may have been aware that Joe Lansdale was a well-established novelist, I didn't bother seeking out any of his other books.

That was a mistake, which I have at long last remedied, by reading Lansdale's Bad Chili and The Magic Wagon back-to-back.

Bad Chili is the fourth in a series (up to six, so far) of crime novels featuring Hap Collins and Leonard Pine. (Why did I start with the fourth? Only one my liberry had.) Hap is a down-on-his-luck, '60s agitator turned offshore oil rigger, and his best friend Leonard is a gay black Vietnam veteran, too surly to even keep his bouncing job. And, to give you a feel for the tone of this book, when we meet them in the first chapter, Hap gets savaged by a rabid squirrel:

We broke and ran. The squirrel, however, was not a quitter. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that it was in fact gaining on us, and Leonard's cussing was having absolutely no effect, other than to perhaps further enrage the animal, who might have had Baptist leanings.

Probably the best way to describe this book and its flavor, the blurbiest way, is "Elmore Leonard in East Texas." Or Carl Hiaasen, or Tim Dorsey, or whichever of that Florida crime novel cadre you want to use. Bad Chili isn't a detective novel, nor an adventure story, nor really a typical crime novel. Its cover describes it as a "novel of suspense", but that still doesn't quite get it right. It simply is what it is, which mostly involves weird and dangerous things happening to two good ol' boys.

As with the Florida novelists I mentioned, it's not the plot that matters; the plot is just an excuse to create vivid and memorable characters, have crazy stuff happen to them, and give them rich, distinctive, hard-bitten, hilarious, colorful, quotable dialogue. My favorite line in the book: "He had an expression on his face like a man who had just been told he was going to have to swallow and pass a bowling ball, then bowl a strike with it."

Lansdale is the guy who wrote the story the film Bubba Ho-Tep was based on, so, if you've seen that, maybe you've got an idea of what I'm talking about here.

The Magic Wagon is an earlier, lesser effort, but still enjoyable. It's a Western, and it involves a traveling medicine show, Indian mysticism, surreally malevolent weather, and the mummified corpse of Wild Bill Hickock. Its tone is much tamer than the other book -- Bad Chili has non-stop foul language, a thoughtful but very frank approach to sex, and much more brutal violence -- but it still ain't for kids.

Lansdale is a real discovery for me, one I should've discovered much sooner. I plan on going through as much Lansdale as I can find in short order, starting with the remainder of the Hap and Leonard series.

Caveat: Lansdale uses the "n-word" in his books. And he uses it a lot. A lot. Same with any number of gay-directed epithets. Does he use them in a manner accurately reflecting the speech of certain real East Texans, both modern and historical? Yes. Does he use them in a prurient fashion, for cheap shock value, in an irresponsible way? No, absolutely not. He makes it very clear that the people who use those terms are generally vile, ignorant, racist, homophobic buffoons. But, for those with more delicate sensibilities, it's perhaps best to be aware of that little fact going in.