Sunday, December 20, 2015

On Books: Water Music by T.C. Boyle (also I stalk authors)

I’ve never been much good around celebrities. Upon meeting Ryan Benjamin, comic book artist for Batman Beyond, at Emerald City Comic Con a few years ago I practically climbed into his booth while frothing at the mouth. With this in mind, it should come as no surprise that when I met the author of My Favorite Book of All Time, I was a smidge less than smooth.

 My favorite book of all time is Water Music by T. Coraghessan Boyle

 Before I tell you how I stalked this man through the streets of Seattle, finally ambushing him in a dark alley, I should tell you a little bit about My Favorite Book of All Time.

 Set in the eighteenth century, Water Music is a historical-ish fiction detailing the first white man’s travels to the Niger River in Africa. This man would be Mungo Park, one of the book’s two main characters. Boyle got his mitts on Park’s publication, Travels in the Interior Districts of Africa: Performed Under the Direction and Patronage of the African Association, 
[... seventeen pages of descriptors because eighteenth century], and refashioned it into a profoundly visual, vivid, often raunchy portrayal of the explorer’s journey loosely based on his writings. Mungo Park, a genteel surgeon from Scotland, and Ned Rise, a shifty whore-mongering con man from the grungy streets of London, skirt death over and over again until finally meeting in the most unlikely of places: pre-Western influenced Nigeria. Ned Rise totally isn’t real, but there’s enough truth and solid research peppered throughout the book to make you second guess practically everything. This book smacks of the gritty action novel, and is still a subtle mockery of traditional 18th century writing style. That might be why I love it so much. This novel will make you laugh, cry, and nauseated all within a few pages, but still has enough literary depth to really sink your teeth into. 

 So. Now that I’ve gushed about My Favorite Book of All Time a bit (and trust me, I’m being mercifully brief), you might understand why my friend Savannah and I went to T. C. Boyle’s reading to promote his (at the time) new book T. C. Boyle Stories II at the Seattle Central Library. I sat enraptured through the whole thing. Finally, the reading over, a line formed to buy the new book and get it signed. I abhor lines, but for the right author I'll do it. I joined the herd, purchased the book, and then confused the hell out of him when I gleefully presented my clearly very worn copy of his first book, Water Music. That probably should have been his first clue that I was bonkers. Anyway there were a million people behind me and most of them were staring and lines make me stressed so I blurted out something stupid, gathered up my suddenly embarrassingly ratty book, and fled.

 Once outside I smoked a cigarette, gathered my wits, and informed Savannah that NO. We CANNOT go home now. Not like this. I HAVE QUESTIONS DAMMIT. The library was almost closed, so with some quick sleuthing I figured out what door he'd most likely exit through. My friend was such a good sport. We hung out in that alley and chain-smoked until finally, ages later, the frizzy-haired leather-clad punk genius emerged with his beautiful wife on his arm. Bursting from the shadows much more alarmingly than I intended, the man immediately shielded his wife from me. That should have dampened my enthusiasm, but it did no such thing. I began happily rambling about the papers I'd written on his book as both travel writing and postmodern historical fiction, how much I loved that he clearly was making fun of 18th century literature, blah-blah-blah-fangirl, and fortunately he began looking less scared and more interested. After I finally slowed down and let the man speak, he pointed out that Water Music really was more a picaresque novel than anything (holy crap how did I not notice that before), and that it was partially inspired by his studies in British lit. He mentioned how he was happy somebody wanted to talk about a book that wasn't World's End (OH but I love that book too), then we moved on to how much we both love Don DeLillo. He really was far more generous with his time than he should have been.

I glowed. 

(It's not just the crappy photo.)

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

On Boobs: Tinder – The Drinking Game

When I first downloaded Tinder, I didn’t intend to find my boyfriend of two years; I just wanted an amusing way to get really drunk, really fast. It worked. These rules were drafted primarily regarding the straight males on the app, but during my extensive studies (translation: drunken ramblings with fellow single people playing this game) I've learned that with a little tweaking they pretty much apply across the board. So, here are the rules:

  • Drink if you can’t tell which person in the main photo is the right one. Finish your drink if none of the other pictures clear that question up.
  • Drink every time you see someone with a drugged-up tiger. Seriously, there are tons of them and I don't understand. Is going to Thailand and manhandling a glorious yet wacked-out predator now a thing?
  • Drink when the main picture is the person standing on top of a mountain. Huzzah you’re outdoorsy, or at least you were that one time on a sunny day two Septembers ago.
  • Drink if the person has a drink in their hand for the main picture. Finish your drink if they've got a drink in their hand for every picture.
  • Drink when it’s clear someone has been cropped out. 
  • Drink every time the person is wearing a hat. Finish your drink if the person is hatted in every picture. Pro-tip for guys: We know why you do this.
  • Drink if they don't post a single full-body shot.
  • Drink if something in the picture clearly shows that this photo is out of date, e.g. an Avatar poster in the background or people planking.
  • Don’t drink if the main picture is a full shot of just the one person doing something they clearly enjoy (that isn't drinking) and they don't seem concerned about their flaws. Message them about a common interest and then go on the best date of your adult life. Probably don’t tell them why you had a Tinder to begin with.


People are often smarter than we give them credit for, so if you're trying hard to hide something or project a particular image we'll know and it's kinda funny. If you're on Tinder, don't do any of these things and prepare to get giggly wasted making fun of everyone who does. 

Friday, December 11, 2015

Now that I don't have your attention...

Since your expectations are now all nice and low, I believe it is time to fire this baby back up.

I must warn you, I may deviate from the aforementioned blog topics of books, boobs, and board games. I'll try to incorporate something about these things in those posts, or at least throw up some links to reviews I've written on Good Reads, but I've got some ideas I'm testing out that I may just throw up here for shits and giggles.

P.S. I GOT AN EMAIL FROM NICK HARKAWAY. MORE TO COME.

P.P.S. If you haven't read his stuff, go do it. Like, now. 

On Books: Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman

So I've finished piles and piles of books since starting this blog, and have I done a review of any of them?

No. No I have not.

It seems like every time I finish a book, I feel like I should digest it a bit more, ponder the themes, and maybe brush up on a few bits before I tackle it in writing. This, it seems, is a grievous error, since I never seem to get around to the actual tackling.

So tackle I must! And Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere is a great start.

I love Neil Gaiman. He's got this fantastically whimsical writing style that still manages to jar with his casual descriptions of violence and harsher realities. In Neverwhere he takes a secret, mystical underworld of London, called London Below, and throws in an extraordinarily boring and doofish businessman named Richard.

Richard meets Door (yes, that's her name) bleeding on a sidewalk and, to the chagrin of his flaming bitch of a fiance, takes her home and tries cleaning her up. The next morning, after some craziness with a bird and a rat and a mystical marquee character, Door disappears and Richard goes invisible. Taxis don't stop for him, his apartment is rented out right in front of him, his flaming bitch of a fiance barely recognizes him after he chases her down, his job doesn't exist anymore. As Richard rejoins Door and the marquee, he is drug through the sewers and the subway tunnels of the mysterious London Below, meeting strange creatures and running from psychotic killers.

It's not Neil Gaiman's best, but bear in mind I read American Gods first. That said, the main characters in this tale are multifaceted and interesting, it's hard to know for sure if you've got the good guys and the bad guys pegged until  the very end and I loved it. The protagonist, or at least that's what I'll label Richard as, is a lovable bumbling idiot who's afraid of heights; his charge is a generally terrified and mildly clueless teenage girl, and everybody else is suspect. Especially with this whole magic business, Neil can lead you by the nose for a chapter or two and then POOFfuckingmagic into a startling conclusion. There were a few moments where I thought he went a bit far with the POOFfuckingmagic but 99% of the time it was masterfully done. Amid all the action, London Below as written by Gaiman is at times carefully described and at others left as a blank canvas where you can fill in your own scary crap, making the whole backdrop of the story fraught with tension.

So yeah. Believable narrative, good flow, interesting characters, and a couple plot twists that actually twist. This one goes into the books-I-will-militarily-foist-on-my-friends pile.