When You Are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris

(A few things. So, it turns out that I am participating in Cannonball Read! Yay! Thanks, Nicole! Second, looks like it's time to bust out the "fauxblopomo" tag again because I'm a big fat failure. --K)

After closing the back cover on this book, I sat with pursed lips.

“Huh,” I said to my roommate’s cat. “David must be getting old.”

I don’t say this because of his persistent comments about his growing shrub of back hair or because his smoking habit can be counted in decades rather than years. It was the theme that permeated the soft, well-chosen words to the barking paragraphs dedicated to the subject: death. Disease, destruction, decay. Death.

“Maybe that’s what happens when you enter middle age? Is that what you think about?” I threw these statements turned questions at the cat, which turned away and began snoring. When you’re an aging feline that has survived a bout with cancer, you don’t waste your time on a human that doesn’t feed you when there’s valuable sleep to be had.

So I sat alone, sure that I had nothing in common with a man nearly forty years my senior whose thoughts have turned to death. What, exactly, does a 24 year old have to worry about anyway? I go to bed with the absolute assurance that I will wake up in the morning. I neglect to eat properly because my body will easily recover. I hop in the car with the sense of immortality that develops during the teenage years and has yet to be squashed by the realities of life. Death? Me? Pah!

Thinking back on this, however, that’s not exactly true—I do think of death. Quite often, actually. For example, I’ve already left instructions for my funeral, an amalgam of police services my father attends and the Jewish ceremonies I’ve been to (picture bagpipes and chocolate fountains.) Before my first trip to Israel, I pondered writing what amounted to my will and sealing it in an envelope to be opened upon my death. I later scrapped this idea, deeming it a little too dramatic even for me, but left my mother instructions in case they had to send my remains home in a box.

I’ve thought about the best death. It would have to be quick with a minimal amount of sheer terror. While flying to Beijing during an intense lightening storm, I decided that a plane crash was not the way to go. I similarly crossed shark attack, cholera, and gangrene off the list for various reasons. At the time of writing, I’ve settled on a quick meteor strike to the head—a quick death and one that will be a family story for generations.

With this in mind, I flipped back into Sedaris’s essays, reading them again. Suddenly, the author’s “death” takes on a capital letter. Death stalks quietly through the book, sometimes skipping essays, only to slam you with full force in others. “Memento Mori” is one in which Death truly makes his presence know. Upon a second reading, I could feel him shivering down my spine, taking up residence in my pelvis, and tingling in my marrow. Also, skeletons hanging in your bedroom? Ew.

Is When You Are Engulfed in Flames as depressing as I’ve made it out to be? No, of course not. There are plenty instances of classic Sedaris word play and self deprecation. And it could very well be that I’ve spent too much time being introspective about the whole thing. Perhaps I’ll also come to a better understanding when I reach that age. Would I read this again? Absolutely, but not as a pick-me-up.

I won’t be asking that damn cat for advice again either.

Verdict: Buy it if you have a Sedaris collection. Otherwise, break out that library card.

(PS. I have, like, 2 other books to review, but damn me if I have the time or the energy to type them up. I'll get there.)

There are people right outside my bedroom door, loudly making cookies. They're keeping me awake, but they sound so happy that I don't want to make them stop.

Weird day. I started out by cleaning the bathroom, then ironing all of my neglected washing, then watching a NatGeo documentary about head shrinking. I now know everything there is about trapping one's soul within one's shrunken head. Fear me.

I don't remember if it was like this in PA, but it sure gets dark early here. It starts at around 4 pm and then is nearly completely black by 5. When I drive home from work, it's like I'm puttering around the city at midnight, which I most assuredly am not.

Blackberry again. Sorry!

I can be kind of impulsive with my money, esp if there is a sob story involved. Now I'm being a little free with my body-- I registered my DNA with the bone marrow registry today on a whim. I hope I can help someone out, but I'm kind of scared too.

If you would like a free registry kit, go to giveagift.com, discount code SAVEALAN.

And again

I worked until 10 PM tonight, so I have neither the time nor the energy to write anything of substance. I think I'm cheating on this Nablopomo thing.

Ugh, I can't be bothered

I have another review, but the title of this post says it all.

Dead Until Dark, by Charlaine Harris

When I went up to pay for this book at Borders, the cashier, an older woman decked out in Giants gear, glanced at the cover.

"Ah," she said, scanning the barcode. "The book is better than the TV show."

Stunned that a woman her age had HBO, much less the desire to read a book called Dead Until Dark, I mutter, "Is that so?"

"Yes. Too much sex in the show. I like my sex scenes kisskiss and fade to black."

I think this sort of strong feeling might exist in the people who have both read this book and watched the corresponding show, True Blood. Not necessarily about sex, but that one medium definitely has the edge over the other.

Upon opening the first page, we leap right into the world of Sookie Stackhouse, a telepathic waitress from the backwoods of northern Louisiana. Vampires have just now gained the rights of legal American citizens, having "come out of the coffin" a few years previous, and humankind is struggling to accept this phenomenon. Sort of like the whole gay marriage debate, except the members of this misunderstood minority are likely to, you know, actually turn you into one of them. Sookie is content to live the lonely life of a person sentenced to listen to other people's disgusting thoughts for eternity when a vampire turns her world upside down.

Yeah, I'm going to stop right there-- this novel's writing wasn't spectacular enough to warrant more than a back cover blurb.

I bet you can guess what side of the TV/book debate I am on. Yep, the show is better. You'll rarely hear me say this, as I tend to be one of those snobs who burst people's bubbles with a well-timed "Well, the movie/TV show was good, but it certainly doesn't stand up to the source material." I'm one of those people. Unfortunately, this isn't one of those times.

The writers for True Blood changed the story a little, yes. They added characters, changed other characters' personalities slightly, or just plain made stuff up. But they did it so well. You care about the main players, connect with them and their world. It's a world that's very familiar-- vampires have a PR crisis and an undead spokeswoman has to smooth things over; a right-wing church pronounces damnation on human/vampire relationships; a small community demonstrates the closeness and familiarity breed contempt. Dead Until Dawn mentions these things, but is more concerned with moving the story forward as quickly as possible. The show, on the other hand, takes as much time as it need to in order to build characters in actual people who you care for and worry about. When Jason, Sookie's brother, is suspected of murder in True Blood, I fretted. In the book-- eh. Whatever. Just a guy, you know?

I wanted to like the book. I really did. And, to some extent, I could appreciate the creativity in the world that Charlaine Harris had created. However, I just can't shake the feeling that a committee of writers did a better job with Harris's world than Harris did. Or, at least, they saw more opportunity in it.

Would I read the next book in the series? Sure. Why not? Would I buy it? That I'm not sure about. If you want a better deal for your money, invest in HBO.

Final verdict: library

back home, but...

... Now I can't get on the internet normally. Blackberry posting is getting tiresome.

A short one...

Cracker Barrel is the most amazing thing known to man. No question.

crap!

I had a whole thing writtenAn but my blackberry lost it. Well, this still counts.

Bloggin' on the Road

Writing from a rural PA Cracker Barrel after an evening meal of french toast and hashbrown casserole. On my way to a Penn State game and typing from.my Blackberry.

Would you be disgusted with me if I said I was typing this in a bathroom? A case of mobile culture gone too far, you say? Well. Then I'll sign off here.

K.

It works!

I'm going to be away from the computer, so I had to test posting with my Blackberry. And, by G-d, it works!

I won't have anything interesting or meaningful to say, but how is that a change?

K.

Maybe someone on the interwebs can help me here. What is the name of this print and who is it by? I've had it as my picture up on Nablopomo for about two years, but I can't remember where I got it from. Tineye.com says that I'm the only one who has it on the whole internet.

I just want to purchase it. :(

K.

Rush Hour

Driving home today, I got on entrance ramp for the west-bound Grand Central Expressway, which is normally just a short road cutting through a little woodsy area. Today, I must have hit it at exactly the right time to take my breath away.

The sky was at that weird twilight stage when it's dark, but the fissures in the clouds are an odd electric blue. While entering the ramp, I passed through the woodsy area where the tree branches formed an arching canopy, framing the street lights. Then the wind funneled the fallen yellow leaves in my direction. The overall effect was of driving through a school of goldfish at a depth where the sun was only just reaching through the water. For a few seconds, I was somewhere other than NYC rush hour traffic.

I don't think I'm describing this all that well, but I'll see if I can't take that route home again tomorrow.

K.

It's that time again!

And by that time, I mean NaBloPoMo! Yay! And I'm only a day late in announcing it.

Quick story: there's a senior singles group at my agency that always complains that they don't get enough people to come to their events. Who do they blame? Me. Listen, the newspaper industry is dying and the last thing they want to put in their failing rags is a singles event for the 65+. Plus, you're bitter and angry.

Sometimes there's a reason why you're single. And it doesn't always have to do with PR.

Whine, whine, bitch, bitch.

K.

The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy

(Welp, I didn't make it into Cannonball Read, but it's still a good goal to pursue. If I make it, maybe I'll donate some money)

I’m irritated that I have to return this novel to the library at work. It’s been gone too long and its absence might be noticed.

My place of employment’s library is filled with brown books, thick books. Books whose innards haven’t seen the light of day in years. Books that lend that particular musty scent to a room that already smells of mildew and fluorescent lighting. It is a room full of ancient learning and one that I occasionally peruse when a group isn’t in there.

I found this book hidden amongst the brown like a little green leaf. It’s a little out of place—you don’t see many Indian authors side-by-side with Rashi, Maimonides, and Uris. So I took it and smuggled it back to my desk. And now that it’s time to return it, I’m hesitant.

The God of Small Things time travels through the lives and histories of Estha and Rahel, a pair of fraternal twins, in their small Indian village. Through them, we see a rise of a family of industry amidst a population that is still painfully poor. Then, in Flannery O’Conner-esque turn of events, we see the high brought low and an ordered world churned into chaos. A family may be at the story’s heart, but it is the history of India and the impossibilities of progress with a rigid caste system are the veins and arteries.

The God of Small Things is a novel that is meant to be read twice in quick succession. It’s not thick—a mere 321 pages—and it doesn’t ask me to explore Newtonian physics, but it does ask to be read more than once. John Updike commented in The New Yorker that it’s “[a] novel of real ambition that must invent its own language.” Roy realizes that English cannot adequately portray the thoughts of a child or a translation of a foreign tongue. She incises nouns like a plastic surgeon and grafts in adjectives, creating words that, like a crooked nose suddenly made straight, you wonder how the English language ever existed before its creation. She forces our mother tongue into concepts not made for our culture—and she makes us understand.

Reading in what essentially becomes a foreign language is not simple for those who just expected to read a story about Indian culture. I re-read the introduction about four times and only grasped every detail by the final read. I finally realized that I could never make it through the book if I continued backtracking, so I plunged ahead like a jungle explorer. I finished—but at what cost? There are many sentences tittering in my wake, mocking my unseemly and unEnglishmajorly haste. So I’ll have to read it again.

But first I’ll have to put it back amongst the brown truck books, a little green leaf resting on the forest floor.

Rating (from bookstore to torrent): Bookstore

(Argh, verbose books make me verbose.)