One Book Down

I just finished reading "The Royal Assassin" by Robin Hobb, and I realized a terrible thing: it was the first book I had finished in 2026.  It is March, and I have only read one book.*

There was a Saturday Night Live sketch years ago of a game show called "What Have You Become?" where the host (I think it was the German actor from Bond and INGLORIOUS BASTERDS) would ask each contestant, "What have you become?" and they would realize they had had all these aspirations, all these dreams they had once pursued, and now . . . they were nothing.  One by one, they break down in despair, then he moves on to the next contestant.  It was not a brilliant sketch (I vaguely remember the last contestant, who was actually happy being a stay-at-home mom asking the host what he had become, and he reacts the same way), but it seems relevant now.  

Because, dude, what have I become?  My sweetest friend.

I like to read, very much, and I work . . . holy R.I.P. Jennifer Runyon, in a bloody library.  But I don't ever do it, or hardly ever.  I probably read as much as I write, and you know how good at that I am.

I am partway through another book I have been listening to in the car, but it is a miserable experience, the narrator absolutely ruining the main character every time she opens her mouth, but because I'm two-thirds of the way through it, I am unwilling to quit on it completely--to admit defeat--because all I'd have to do is give it an hour or three more, and I'd have two books read this year.

I heard the other day that writer Dan Simmons had died (which is sad--he was highly underrated), and I told myself, "I ought to read The Terror again sometime."  But at the rate I'm going, that will never happen.  I never make the time to read new books, much less books I've already read.  

And last year, I told my buddy Jeff about "Dungeon Crawler Carl" when I was reading it, and he read all seven books in the series before I had even finished that first one.**

I guess it's not too late to try to do better--and I do tend to read for an hour or two every time I go to the cabin in the summer--but I suspect this is the worst year on record for me and reading. That being said, I just checked out a book at the library (a 350 page T. Kingfisher book), and I will do the best I can to get it finished in less than three months.  Maybe even two. 

Rish

*Plus, I wouldn't even have finished it not been a warm afternoon so I dragged a chair outside and read until it was too dark to see anymore, then forced myself to finish it before I did anything else (otherwise, it might even have been April).

**Now, that's not to say I should compare myself to Jeff in all things.  After all, he reads two or more books a week.  Also, he is planning to retire within two years, and I plan to die penniless (and soon).  

Abbie and I Become Assassin's Apprentices

Have you ever read The Farseer Trilogy by Robin Hobb?  I haven't, but a fan of Abigail Hilton's books recently mentioned that her favorite books were those by Abbie and "The Elderlings" series by Hobb.  Abbie forwarded me the comment (since the listener said she was a fan of my narrations of the books), and I asked her if she thought I'd like the Hobb books.

Abbie said she thought I would, and wondered if I'd want to do a podcast where we read the books and talk about them.*  So, I went out and got "The Assassin's Apprentice," which is the first book in the series, and I started reading just as soon as I finished the previous book I was enjoying.**

If you too would like to read the book, then, hey, we could be brothers.  Or sisters.  Or heroes.  And if you want, you can hear the first episode of our joint podcast HERE (Abbie's page) or HERE (my page), where Abbie and I exchange questions and answers in a way that may be entertaining to you (but I make no guarantees).

Note: Abbie is very smart (or very educated, or both), and that can be intimidating. But I enjoy hearing about her breadth of experience or knowledge, and don't feel insulted if she has to mansplain something to me. I imagine we'll get tons of that as we go on with the books, especially since she has read them (the first three, anyway) before and I haven't. Of course, Abbie doesn't know that Alex McCrindle played General Dodonna in STAR WARS, so, well, you know.

*I initially misrememebered ME being the one who suggested we podcast about it, but I was wrong.  As I was about spelling "misremembered."

**That one was Thomas Hardy's 1874 novel "Far From The Madding Crowd," which I honestly only read because they made a movie of it, an annoying habit I have.

September Sweeps - Day 237

Dang, there were two things I wanted to relate to you in yesterday's blog post, but I was too tired to get to them.  Well, I'll share one tonight, and another in a couple of days (it includes an audio portion).

So, time travel is real, apparently.

So, I knew I was close to finishing the book I got from the library, but I didn't have time to head over there and grab a second one (I have one I keep in my suitcase, in case of "emergencies," but I've never cracked it), so I looked at the big stack of David Gemmell books I bought recently (when it seemed like we were going on lockdown a few months back), and decided to grab one at random.  The cover was not familiar, nor was the title, but I read the description on the back just in case.  Didn't ring a bell.

After I finished my library book, I grabbed the paperback and sat down to read it.  I read the Introduction, which seemed familiar, but hey, a lot of Gemmell's books take place in a medieval age in nations that no longer exist.  Then I went on to the first chapter.  Halfway down the page, I was suddenly transported to a film set just a few years ago, where I was an extra.  We were shooting in a tourist attraction made up to look like pioneer days, and I was playing a settler in the 1840s (they had requested men with beards, and then asked us with beards for volunteers to shave their facial hair into an Abraham Lincoln/Brigham Young style...and I was literally the only one to volunteer).

Even though it was September 2020, I found myself sitting on the stairs of one of the museum buildings, reading a book, waiting for the cameras to turn around and them to need me . . . and it was this book.  I could see my clothes, see the people around me, and then, I was back at the cabin, realizing I had indeed read that book, not so long ago. 

Amazing, that.

(this may be my last extant picture from that day)

Sit-ups Today: 111
Sit-ups In September: 3806

Push-ups Today: 48
Push-ups In September: 948

I got asked to narrate a story on StarShipSofa again this week.  I tried to record it, but fell asleep multiple times.  The whole reading should be about twenty-five minutes, but it took me thirty-eight to record the first half.  Editing it should be "fun."

Words Today: 940
Words In September: 25,744

Noble House (of Ideas)

I recently got to go back to Santa Monica, California for the first time in a decade or so.

When I got out of school and moved to Los Angeles, I had (pretty close to literally) no money.  I learned to do, for leisure activities, things that cost very little, or things that cost nothing.  One of the first things I learned to do was to go to the 3rd Street Promenade (the street-long collection of shops, boutiques, and touristy places three blocks from the Pacific Ocean), where I could park for free in one of their multi-level garages, and look around, go to the beach, or cleverly . . .

. . . I could go to the Barnes & Noble on the corner, pick up a book or magazine, and leaf through it until it was time to go (or buy something), to keep from having to pay to park.

I loved the Barnes & Noble.  It had three levels, and there were escalators in the center of it, but instead of one side being to go Up and the other to go Down, they made you circle the entire floor on each level, just to eff with you.  It was kind of a magical place for me, since I ran into a couple of celebrities there (including a certain muscular Austrian I do a fairly unpleasant [but amusing?] impression of).

I wrote a story called "House of Ideas" that was set there.  Maybe not my finest work, but they say it's among the twenty-three best "magical toilet stall" tales ever run on the Dunesteef.

Well, after a dozen years, I went back this week, and found a rather sad sign on the window (as well as a rather empty building behind said window).  The Santa Monica Barnes & Noble has closed.

Of course, that is the way of things (the way of the Force).  Pretty soon, my local Toys R Us (and yours as well) will be closing its doors* and eventually, every place (and person) I've ever liked, visited, or loved will also be gone.  I ought to get used to it.

But it's nice to get melancholy about stuff like this; it's because I had good memories associated with the person or place that makes it noteworthy.

Guess I should find a new place to write a story about.  Maybe a strip club or two?

Rish Outfield, Once Actually Bought A Book In Barnes & Noble

*And I wrote a story that took place there as well: a Holiday-themed zombie apocalypse story where the town's survivors go in search of presents on Christmas Eve and one of them ends up getting trapped in the back room by the living dead.

brief

Just finished up reading Jaws by Peter Benchley.

I will never again say that all movies based on novels are inferior to the book.

I had meant to read it for many years, since JAWS is one of my favorite movies, but nearly every moment, and absolutely every line of dialogue, that I loved in the film is absent from the book. There was only one moment that I liked in the book well enough to wish it had been in the movie, and it wouldn't even have worked in the structure of the film.

Kind of amazing to think about.

A comic book? Run!

Let me take ten minutes to talk about the book I'm reading now. I've almost finished David Hajdu's "The Ten Cent Plague," a non-fiction tome about the rise and fall of the American comic book. It talks about the origins of the comics and how they gained in popularity until they became a multi-million dollar industry . . . and how public backlash and various controversies brought them down to near extinction.

The book both fascinates and repulses me in even measures, and I've had to put it down a couple of times to keep from screaming. It's interesting, but mostly infuriating, that religion and politics joined forces to censor--and nearly destroy--comics at a time when people were so easily manipulated that literally millions of (now priceless) comics were tossed out or held in public burnings.

This especially shocked me, almost to the point of tears, when I think of how much joy comic books brought me through my formative years (and indeed, still bring me today), and, to be fair, the cash value of those books thrown on so many fires or trash heaps. 

It's absolutely shameful, and no coincidence that the book also talks about Joe McCarthy's Communist witch hunts from around the same time, which took advantage of a scared and gullible populace to ruin peoples' lives. It should be funny, the terror America (and England too, apparently) had of juvenile delinquency, and the blame that fell on something that is now seen as so innocuous, if still unfairly maligned. 

Having been censored before or had my own words used against me out of context, and growing up in a house where my father referred to "funny books" as illiterate trash, made this all very personal to me. I could get into a very angry rant here, as I audibly cursed more times while reading this book than any . . . except maybe the Kevin Smith autobiography I read aloud. 

But I won't. Instead, I'll just finish up this book and start on another one. That's what Jeff would do. 

Rish J.D. Outfield

Underneath "Under the Dome"

So, for the last little while, I've been reading Stephen King's newest book "Under the Dome." From almost the first page, I was shocked by how good it was, by how fast it moved, and by how captivating and direct it was (as opposed to the meandering narratives he's fabricated these last few years). Now, while I'm only halfway through it in writing this, I'm tempted to proclaim the new book not just good, but great.

And what strikes me most about the book is how much it feels like OLD Stephen King, the kind of book he wrote in the Seventies and early Eighties (like, the pre-"IT" days). The storytelling is just so solid and compelling, it serves as a reminder as to why he was the biggest novelist in the world for a number of years there.

While this delights me--and it does, believe me, after so many books like "Lisey's Story" and "From A Buick 8"--it also confuses me. How can his writing degenerate so badly, and then come back again? Back to the top of his game?

I wrote this a while back, but was hesitant to post it, because of my recent experience with a book where I raved about how great it was, only to find myself disliking the seismic shift in tone it took later on.

Apparently, this was a book King started in the Seventies, only to abandon, pick up again a few years later, and abandon a second time. I figured that we'd hit a point where it would change style, and become the meandering, aimless yarn I've come to expect with the modern King.

But it didn't.* I was more satisfied with "Under the Dome" than I have been with a King book in a long, long time. And more amazingly, even though it's over a thousand pages long, I despaired when I neared the end, and could have handled a couple hundred more pages.

Thanks, Uncle Steve.

Rish "Flagg" Outfield

*True, there is a point where the feel of the book changes rather dramatically, and while I can see people complaining about that, it felt pretty built-to and organic to me.

Slaughterhouse Rish

So, I don't know if it was a mistake or not, but I blogged about a book recently, and now I'm reading "Slaughterhouse 5" by Kurt Vonnegut, and I'm somewhat tempted to blog this one too.
I'd heard of the book before, and I was vaguely aware there was a movie made once, but I never read it, and except for the main character in CAN'T HARDLY WAIT, know no one else who has read it.

In fact, I can't think of what motivated me to pick it up. I think there was a comment on an old Dunesteef episode where somebody mentioned this as one of their favorite books, but I found it at the library, and I grabbed it (and a collection of Hans Christian Anderson fairy tales, but that one I put down fairly quickly).

"Slaughterhouse Five" is actually quite amusing, even though it is a rough, dark, almost mean-spirited novel. That surprised me, since I have such an old-fashioned view on the past it's almost embarrassing. A lot of it takes place during World War II, and it constantly surprises me that things like vulgarity, porn, a-holism, and the f-word existed in those days.

The repeated phrase "So it goes" impressed me at first, then I felt like it got repeated too much, and then, after it had been repeated a dozen more times, I started to laugh whenever it was used.

From back in the Horror Film Compendium days, I had set aside two major compliments for a movie. The first one doesn't really apply, since books tend to be much better written than horror movies, but the second one totally works for "Slaughterhouse Five." When it ended, I was disappointed, because I was enjoying it so much I could've stood for more.

Rish "Billy Pilgrim" Outfield

"Stranger" redux

So, a week or three ago, I posted about how much I was loving Stranger In A Strange Land, but I must have forgotten to knock on wood, 'cause almost immediately afterward, I started to NOT love it so much.

I'm embarrassed to say this, since I so rarely blog about books, but maybe it's 'cause I don't talk about books that I ought to amend my original post. There comes a point in the book where the storyline suddenly changes. It's like night and day, when there's a shift in storytelling technique, and from that point on, almost without exception, the book was never the same. It started to get really strange, what with the Fosterites, and then the time at the carnival, and the sharing of more than just water, and eventually the whole Mike starts his own religion thing.

I have to admit that I considered quitting on a couple of occasions (something I do a lot more with books nowadays than I used to; if a book starts to lose my attention or rub me the wrong way, I just dump it, because whatever I paid for the book is no longer the overriding concern in reading it), though I would have missed that great joke at the end where some guy in the mob that attacks Mike demands that he "stop the goddamn blasphemy."

Really, Stranger In A Strange Land was two books, and it's the second half, the second book, if you will) that has touched so many lives, inspired so many people to think differently, and encouraged them to leave their puritanical upbringings in the dust, never looking back. That I didn't respond to it, appreciate it, or really, even "get" it says a lot more about me than the novel.

But hey, somebody's got to buy those "Star Trek" tie-in books, kids.

Rish "Juvenile Fiction" Outfield

eye lyke two reed

So, I finally finished "Dead Until Dark," the book tyranist bought for me more than a month ago. He, of course, finished it approximately eight minutes before even picking it up, but I've long since learned that competing with him is like trying to out-bodyhair Robin Williams, or out-whore Madonna.The story is about Sookie Stackhouse, a Southern waitress afflicted with the ability to read minds. In her world, vampires have recently announced themselves to exist, and have been co-mingling with regular folks and drinking synthetic blood. Into her little town comes Bill Compton, a vampire who owns the big house near to Sookie's grandmother's, and they hit it off pretty much right away.

There's some murders, a little sex, some vampire intrigue, a little more sex, a vampire Elvis, and a dog shapeshifter, and there are apparently several books in the series (all with "Dead" in the title).

But the lateness of the hour notwithstanding, I quite enjoyed the book, and was telling Merrill about it the other day, trying hard not to invoke comparisons to "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," or worse, those gorram "Twilight" books.

A hundred years plus Stoker's "Dracula," I never would've thought that there's still room for interesting vampire stories, but hey, I'm wrong a lot.

And it's funny, I still can't get used to the name Sookie Stackhouse.

Rish

The Terror, The Terror (ugh, I can't believe I went there)

I went camping with the family for the Labor Day weekend, staying in the ever-expanding cabin in the woods. My dad and my uncle have been building it for several years, and it's finally at the stage where it's truly livable and a thing to behold. Oh, and apparently my brother gets it when my father dies, but that's a subject for another post.

Oh, and I took a bunch of pictures. Another post too.

Basically, I just wanted to mention (very briefly), that I don't read a lot anymore. I used to be something of a reader, I guess, and still own many books, but they just sit, gathering dust or water stains.

Now, my evil friend tyranist, now he's a reader. That dude reads--literally--a book a week*, and has a library as vast as Paris Hilton and Courtney Love's collective venereal diseases.

But me, I don't do it like I used to.

It's crazy how life has now shifted into overdrive, and mostly I just watch it spin by, like the merry-go-round Mr. Cooger rode in "Something Wicked This Way Comes."

I don't write as much as I'd like to, I don't blog as much as I'd like to, I don't read as much as I'd like to, I don't watch as much TV as I'd like to**, I don't socialise as much as I'd like to, and mostly I don't live as much as I'd like to.

But anyway, I took The Terror by Dan Simmons with me on the camping trip, and I'm really glad I did. The novel tells the story of an 1847 attempt by two British ships, The Erebus and The Terror, to reach the then-mythical Northwest Passage up near the unexplored Arctic. Both ships end up getting stuck in the ice, and after a particularly cold summer, they are frozen in for another winter, with the very-real possibility that both ships will be lost, and their crews starved, before spring comes again. Oh, and there's something out there, in the blinding snow and ice . . . something hungry.
It's got all the cool period nautical details that I've grown fond of recently, as well as the chilling (no pun intended), unknowable horror I've loved all my life, and I . . . well, really the best thing I can say about it is that while I was reading it yesterday, my mom commented that I must have really been enjoying it, due to the huge goofy grin on my face.

Maybe I should try reading more often.

Still no go on the living, though.

Rish "The Litirate One" Outfield

*And if he travels anywhere, it's easily two books.

**How many people can say that??

Harry Potter report

Hey, I gotta blog briefly about "Harry Potter" 7.

"Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" was probably the most anticipated book in my lifetime, and I was excited about getting it on the 20th at midnight, like everybody else was. I thought I ought to take my niece to at least see the festivities, since she and I are close (in the way I can never be with people once they turn eleven or so) and I remember how great it was a couple of years ago after coming out of HULK and seeing a Harry Potter party at the Borders down the block.

So, there's a Borders not far away, and I took my niece (I almost called her my sister there, another sure sign of old age), finding a tremendous crowd, rock concert-sized. Not a heck of a lot of nubile young things were wandering around, and ironically, the girl playing The Fat Lady (complete with picture frame) was not really fat. It was fun, there was face painting, a costume contest, ringtosses, a sorting hat, a jellybean-tasting contest, and a mask-making table. We each made a mask, and here's the photo:


They gave away glow sticks at the door, and candy at a couple of booths. There were stickers and buttons proclaiming your support or condemnation of Snape (I believe I'm wearing mine in the picture I stuck on here), and I believe that I will be Snape come this Halloween, if I'm still around.

Even though it was late, my niece has inherited a lot of my qualities, such as being a night owl, the enjoyment of all things scary and twisted, mimicry, and the inability to grow a proper beard. There were a couple of guys dressed as (I'm guessing here) dementors, and I pretended I didn't see them, enjoying my niece's frustration at my confusion when she pointed them out to me. I will miss her soon when she outgrows me.

It was super crowded, as I said, and it was nigh unto impossible to get a book. But there was no shoving, bickering, farting, or audible complaining. A good crowd; I don't know that I could completely despise somebody who loved the Harry Potter books.

At quarter-to-twelve, they announced that whoever hadn't preordered the book should leave the store so that the winners in life could partake. I left, figuring I could, since I am in Land Of A Thousand Wal-marts, just go to the nearest one of those and pick my book up with no fuss and no wait. And no teeth, if you follow the stereotype.

But Wal-mart, if you can believe it, was worse off than Borders. The line looped through the food department, crossing through Women's Apparel, Diapers, Electronics, Toys, Home Furnishings, Home Dentistry, School Supplies, Books and Magazines, Greeting Cards, Automotive, Marital Aids, Garden, and back around to Children's Wear. I exaggerate not when I say there were at least a thousand people in line there. So I left, giving up. As I crossed the parking lot to my car, we were heckled by a foursome of college-aged morons out on the balcony of their apartment. One of the stoners shouted, "Dudes, it's just a book!"

That should have bothered me, especially since those idiots represent the future of our once-great country. But fuck them, the fact that this many people are this excited about a BOOK (instead of Nascar, or a football game, or killing people of another colour, or even a TV show) makes me think, more than anything in recent memory, that there's actually hope for society.

I took my niece back so she could sleep, and resigned myself to not buying a copy in the middle of the night. But then tyranist called me, on his way to getting his own book, and I believe he recommended I go to the local grocery store to get one. Grocery stores tend to be open twenty-four hours, and I got back in my car and headed over, still chatting with my friend. Turns out, I was only in line for four or five minutes, and then I had the book (I got mine before tyr got his, even). I went home and made it through the first couple chapters before passing out.

Terrified of the kind of spoilers that plagued me with the last book,* I avoided most contact with the outside world, stayed away from the internet, and dug in hard to read the book through that weekend. It was difficult, though, since, as with "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," I'd much prefer to ration it out, still reading the darn thing come mid-August.

Tyranist finished the book on that Sunday, and try as I might, I couldn't quite make it. He wanted to talk about it, and many of the people at work too wanted to discuss what they were reading, what they had heard, or what they "just had a feeling" was going to happen at the end of the book. I read when I could on Monday, and promised tyranist I'd finish it before we went to a soccer game Tuesday night. Finally, I just had to call in sick on Tuesday to finish it (I only ended up missing about a quarter of my day, though).

And it was a great book. I suppose that goes without saying--why would I be writing this if I hated it?--but it was an experience just following Harry James Potter from a baby at the beginning of the first book to where he ends up at the end.

And I had no idea I could be so moved by a novel. I cried multiple times, and was not alone; I had a friend start crying just recounting his favourite part of the book to me. This is my PEARL HARBOR experience, but I doubt I'll have as many scoffers when I talk about this one.**

There were so many threads tied together and picked up on from previous novels that I
probably missed a dozen of them (one of the characters I thought was new was not only in the previous books, but was in the movies as well), and every time I picked up on one, I got the satisfying, happy feeling that I was being rewarded for having followed along this closely for so long***.

The book was fantastic. I don't read as much as tyranist does--but then, only people confined to a hospital bed read as much as he does--but this is the best ending to a book series I've ever read.

I'm not really one of those people that only likes something as long as nobody else appreciates it, so I'm happy J.K. Rowling has become so successful. If one out of ten readers experiences the joy, frustration, fear, love, pain, laughter, excitement, and satisfaction that I did, she totally deserves her fame and fortune. I'll pick up whatever she writes next, and if it's a third as good as the second-worst "Harry Potter" book, it'll still be twice as good as the best thing I could manage.

Thanks, Jo.

R. Rowling Outfield

*I limited my reading of "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" to a chapter a day, and one of my coworkers who knew I was reading it came up to my desk and gave away the ending. I never figured out why he'd do that . . . I guess I didn't give him a chance, as I beat him to death with a fireplace poker, then set fire to his house.
And here's the best part: they laid the blame on this big shot banker who got tossed into the Shank for life.

**Someday, I would like to talk about why PEARL HARBOR was such a moving movie experience for me. I doubt it would justify why I liked it so much in anybody's eyes, but I'd still like to explain. Only not today.

***"Buffy" does that too; there are jokes in nearly every episode that are only funny if you know what event in an older episode they're referring to.