- My mom has just phoned with the cash results after making the final hash marks in the book for her 2006 garage sale. Don't you love her? As every suburban hausfrau should, she revels in this annual feast of nickel and dime commerce, along with her sisters and friends and all my siblings (these latter contributing only sale items and no actual work). If you detect any note of sarcasm or derision in that statement, let me just disavow you of that idea right now. My mom is a near-saint in my book. Love her to pieces. Love everything about her. Thinking of being her for Halloween. So, my portion of the cast-off lucre comes to $389 USD. Does any money scream louder for wanton spending than this? Any suggestions for using my tag sale swag?
- I haven't recommended any books lately, mostly because I haven't been reading much, but over the last few weeks I've consumed a few. Care to hear where I'd put my thumb? On the books, I mean. Two of these were in my stack FOREVER, and the third was offered by a lovely friend while I was on holiday. If you like Christopher Moore, you'll no doubt enjoy The Stupidest Angel (A Heartwarming Tale of Christmas Terror). Good stuff. Vintage Moore. Still, it doesn't stand up to the first thing I read of his/by far the best thing he's done--Lamb. That said, if you're anything like me, you'll laugh and laugh. I'm giving a heartier recommendation to The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst. A Booker Prize winner from a few years back, this one is enjoyable for the very English comedy of manners pieces. It's not so plot driven, but highly enjoyable for precise passages of pithy dialogue that'll make you scorn your everyday boring discourse in your everyday boring Midwestern accent (or lack thereof). It's why I'm peppering my blog entries/comments with "darling!" so much. Oh, and it's very, very gay. I didn't realize it, but I read that prior to acclaim for this book, Hollinghurst was known as a "gay novelist." There is some hot public park man sex within the first 50 pages, and the central character is a gay man who attaches himself to a rich family. So when the matriarch of the rich family to which I've attached myself asked me to give her the book when I finished, I squirmed a little. Was she looking at me differently when we parted or was it my imagination? Finally, she traded me TLoB for the far superior The Child In Time by Ian McEwan. It's only my third favorite McEwan novel, but easily eclipses most of the other things I've read in the last year. This is earlier stuff from my boy Ian and you can definitely see glimpses of what will come to full flower in Atonement (simply, one of the best things I've ever shoved my face into). The Child In Time examines our very experience of time and the expectations that go along with aging from at least four intertwining perspectives. Central to the story is how the life of Stephen Lewis is irrevocably altered following the disappearance of his three year old daughter while on a Saturday morning trip to the grocery. Boy, if you're a character in a McEwan novel and it's a Saturday, best to stay on your toes, yo. OK, have you had enough from Mike's bookstack? I'm now re-reading Wicked (it's been TEN YEARS since the last time) in anticipation of seeing the musical next month. Since I've read that before, I can spread my focus (picture it), so I'm also a few pages into When We Were Orphans by Kazuo Ishiguro. His Never Let Me Go is on my wishlist, but this one was lying around the familia's vacation home, so I availed myself.
- Whew. I know, that was a marathon session. If it was a chore for you, I'm probably not your man. If it was more like a tantric, bring-you-repeatedly-to-the-brink festival of rumpled sheets and grunting, then call me, won't you? This afternoon I'll be attending a First Holy Communion (dirty?), and then tonight I'm going to see Kathy Griffin, guys! I'm just guessing, but I imagine the boys will be out en masse for that one, eh? LOVE. HER.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
I am just a simple man with simple expectations
It's been a while since I've served up a steaming dish of detritus from my brainpan. Mmmmm....can't you almost smell it? PS- It makes for tasty leftovers. I like it straight from the fridge for breakfast, all congealed like yesterday's hot and sour soup. OK, now I'm hungry. Anyway, here goes: