Cold Bean Porridge and a Virgin Milkmaid

They are always coming

2008-12-29T07:16:02Z

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
Gods and Jabber, I don't know why I love this one the most. It's not necessarily better than the other Bas-Lag Books (don't you dare call them a trilogy, don't you dare. Old China may write other books but he says he'll always come back to this; there's more to come), and it's nowhere near the worst. There's just something about this that feels so radically different, so alien,so apart from the others. Perdido Street Station was new and fresh and amazing, yeah, but it felt familiar enough--while still being strange and fantastic, of course--that you still felt just-so comfortable reading it (or as comfortable as you could be reading about sex with bug-people), and The Scar was a fun old adventure story, exotic and equally fantastic but still an ab-sequel to PSS.

But here, here, Iron Council rips us away from mid-1700s (Anno Urbis) New Crobuzon and tosses us thirty, forty years into a New Crobuzon that barely remembers the Midsummer Nightmares, and what's this? No more constructs? Jack's dead? Ben Flex is just a name? The fucking Militia's out?

You want the same old city, you wish it could stay frozen in time, but New Crobuzon is different. Changed. It's darker, uglier, more cynical. And even when Cutter and the others escape, chasing Judah on his quest for the Iron COuncil, the city still clings to them like an oil slick. The city in Isaac's day was hardly bright and cheerful, but back then it still echoed with adventure. Now the militia are out, and everything else had to go into hiding. It's time to go west to bring the Iron Council home.

That long out-west adventure/quest itself, and the long-ago middle piece detailing the long gestation and sudden birth of Iron Council, make up the bulk of the story, mixed with snatches of back-home reports of the small revolutionary movements taking place in the city, and this jump back and forth from cynical near-despair to hopeful optimistic questing is what makes this a hard, weird novel. It jumbles in places, it tosses about; it's not always a pleasant read, or an easy one. It's tougher, more political, more insistant. But it's so good. So rewarding. And even the end, that fat and unnatural anticlimactic-climax, that so-wrong final meeting of the Council and the City, even as you want to yell "that is not how it should have happened!" you cannot help but think "Yes, yes, that is how it was, how it is, how it should be." There is something strange and wonderful about Mieville's works that both frustrate and inspire.

Mieville likes playing with cities. New Crobuzon is exotic enough already, and the ship-city of Armada from TS was plenty awesome. Here we have Iron Council itself, the perpetual train, ungrateful child of New Crobuzon. Makes you almost giddy wondering what Old China will give us next.

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Waste of time

2008-12-22T22:37:26Z

The Plot to Save Socrates by Paul Levinson

My review

rating: 1 of 5 stars
So. Twenty minutes into the future, a graduate student named Sienna receives part of a dialogue between Socrates and a supposed time traveler trying to save his life, which leads her to a hidden time machine in London where she sets off on her own journey through history to find out the truth.

You'd think with a premise like that, this book would be awesome, right? Right? Yeah, so did I. What we get, instead, is a weak, boring, convoluted story almost completely lacking in character development and plot. The setting is just barely defined (we get section headings like "Athens, 404 BC" and little else), and combined with the rest of the narrative (characters mostly talk for a while, then do stuff in short bursts) makes the story read like a half-assed movie script. It's a dialogue-heavy script--er, book--which I wouldn't mind so much if the dialogue was natural. And interesting. But all the characters sound awkwardly formal, with no change in voice from character to character. The whole book reads like a Socratic dialogue. That might be intentional on the author's part, but it doesn't make the story any more readable.

As for characterization--well, what characters stand out are either historical figures, which means they're ill-defined and completely static (sole exception being Alcibiades, who mostly just does stuff when the story calls for it) or the cast of main characters who are even less interesting: Sienna, the main character, passively reacts to events surrounding her--including death-- and shows up in various periods without her personality (oops! Must've forgot it in Athens!); Thomas, her mentor, who occasionally shows up with information but does little else (and when his character is finally fleshed out at the end, the facts are as dull as the rest of the book); and Heron, whose motives are never entirely clear. What's he doing now? Why's he helping them. Now why is he trying to stop them? Huh?

As for Socrates...well, considering the plot revolves around him, he only shows up near the end, where he completely nullifies much of the plot with his decision, and the ultimate revelation of Andros, the time traveler in the dialogues, comes with zero shock. Less of a bang, more of a halfhearted deflated sound. "Oh, that's how it is. Meh."

Basically, a huge disappointment. I can't really say why I suffered through this thing, except that it was a mercifully short read. Although the beginning was rather weak and rushed, I think I figured it would eventually get better. How wrong I was. By then, though, I was halfway through the book and figured I should finish. If anything, it provided a small history lesson to help me brush up on my knowledge of the trial and death of Socrates--although I imagine The Trial of Socrates by I.F. Stone, which was mentioned a few times in this book, will help much better.

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They call him Mister Tibbs

2008-12-12T06:25:04Z

In the Heat of the Night by John Ball

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars
A murder occurs in a small Southern town of Wells, and the first suspect, a black man who just happens to be in the wrong place (the town of Wells) at the wrong time (after the body is found), turns out to be Virgil Tibbs, a homicide investigater from California. It's a small embarrassment for the police that's made only worse when the friends and family of the murder victim request his help to catch the killer. Virgil Tibbs is just the man Wells needs, but definitely not the man police chief Bill Gillespie wants.

It's a good book and a good mystery (and interesting enough to add the rest of the Virgil Tibbs mysteries to my reading list), but as much as I hate to admit it, this is one occasion where I liked the movie more. The mystery here is woefully placed in the background, especially as three other suspects after Tibbs lead the police and the reader off the trail, so the revelation of the real killer is sudden and extremely unexpected.

Officer Sam Wood is by far the strongest character in the novel--rightly so, considering his is the main viewpoint--but the main reason I prefer the movie more is because it brings Tibbs up front and center. Here in the novel, Tibbs is mostly a passive background character, doing much of his investigation off the page while the white cops work to solve (and bungle) the case. In a sense, he seems to act like the "Good Negro," unusually educated but mostly subserviant to Wood and Gillsprie, either politely deferring to the two men or quietly investigating on his own, careful not to disturb the white folk in their peaceful little town, only showing up to interrupt when he has to.

It may just be that Tibbs knows enough to keep his head down in an unfriendly place, but I still prefer the aggressive and hotheaded character from the films more. Tibbs seems to passively accept all the racism and abuse hurled at him in the book, whereas he resists it--famously so--in the movie.

That said, it's still a good book, and the number of changes made in the film helps the book stand on its own. Very interested in the rest of the series.

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I should just turn this into my Goodread-affiliated reading blog

2008-12-05T23:03:47Z

The Best Time Travel Stories of the 20th Century: Stories by Arthur C. Clarke, Jack Finney, Joe Haldeman, Ursula K. Le Guin, by Harry Turtledove

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
Very good, very varied collection of storis. There were a few I didn't care for: "Timetipping" by Jack Dann was just weird, and I couldn't really get into Robert Silverberg's "Sailing to Byzantium," as well as one or two other less-impressive ones, but overall the stories varied from entertaining to excellent: "I'm Scared" by Jack Finney was especially good, as well as "A Gun for Dinosaur" by L. Sprague de Camp (more on that below), "The Man Who Came Early" by Poul Anderson, and "Rainbird" by R.A. Lafferty. But it was "The Price of Oranges," a powerful little gem by Nancy Kress, that really made the anthology. That had to be the best one.

I wasn't surprised to find Ray Bradbury's story "A Sound of Thunder" here, but I wasn't impressed either. This is the famous story in which a single mistake in the past ends up dramatically changing the future--that is, by fixing an election and ruining spelling bees forever. Never liked that story.

Butterfly effect or not, it always seemed to me the highest form of vanity to assume that the actions of a single human being can alter the next sixty-odd million years so much. I know, I know, it's time travel. But while it makes perfect sense to apply the butterfly affect to human history, because human history is just so brief (and, for that matter, it's easy to look at any chain of events in the recent past and find plausible ways to alter them), you can't expect me to believe that one tiny event deep in the past can change the course of tens of millions of years in such a radical way. Apparently humans are just that special, but I don't buy it. That's why I was surprised and pleased to read de Camp's story "A Gun for Dinosaur." Took a far more realistic approach (as realistic as time travel can be) to the matter: do what you want in the past, because there's too much time in the past for us to ever screw up. Not the greatest message either, especially in this fragile age of environmentalism, but at least it recognizes that humans aren't as special or as influential as we like to think we are.

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Fuck yeah!

2008-11-05T04:26:42Z

Hey, cool.

I guess this means my ever-lingering cynicism and doubt was all for nothing. Boy, is my face red.

But hey, President Obama has a nice ring to it.

Fuck yeah.

October Surprise--The Musical!

2008-10-10T21:41:53Z

What a week. The stock market's crashing and we're all going to die. But hey, gas is ~~$3.19~~ ~~$3.09~~ $2.99/gallon! I gotta say, I'm almost tempted to vote Republican--except, well, I wasn't thinking clearly the other day when I registered and voted absentee for Obama. I guess I got hooked by that message of Hope and Change when I should've been thanking Our Republican Masters for cheap oil.

But seriously, I voted Obama. Congratulate me if you will, but I mostly voted for him because he seems better than McCain. Too cynical for Hope & Change & Stuff. Didn't think it would matter much anyway--I guessed way back in January that it would come down to Obama and McCain, and that McCain would win: no matter how much Obama inspired young voters, we're still outnumbered by the baby boomers, and I always had a feeling they'd be more comfortable with McCain. Adding Palin to the ticket only guarantees the crazy religious vote, which makes me even more pessimistic...

...but I noticed that Obama's ahead in the polls, so maybe All Is Not Lost? Hard to say. There's another month of this depressing election bullshit to slog through, but [eople aren't so charmed by Palin anymore, and Obama hasn't revealed himself as the Antichrist yet. So he could win. I'm willing to admit that: Obama might just win.

But it's October, and October is a time for surprises. Something could happen to fuck up the campaign and doom us all. But short of Obama's absent father turning out to be bin Laden, I can't think of anything. Palin either scares or amuses people, and nobody seems to care about Obama & that Ayers guy. Even if B. Hussein ~~Osama~~ Obama is exposed as a secret Muslim, I doubt much will change; the people who believe he's a terrorist already have their minds made up. But surprises could happen. And at this point, it'll have to take a really big surprise for McCain to win. Something huge. Something like...

The assassination of Levi Johnston.

Think about it. Here's this young all-American boy, Alaska's favorite son, Bristol Palin's high school sweetheart. (Really! They love each other--that is, he knocked her up--and they're going to get married. With a moosegun at their back, but whatever. He's a young man with a bright future ahead of him--he'll be a Palin!--and, I predict, a promising future in politics) Unfortunately, for McCain to win, he'll have to die.

[DISCLAIMER FOR THE FBI: THE FOLLOWING HYPOTHETICAL SITUATION IS ENTIRELY FICTITIOUS. I AM NOT INVOLVED IN ANY PLOT TO MURDER LEVI JOHNSTON OR ANY MEMBER OF THE PALIN OR MCCAIN FAMILIES. THIS IS A TEST. I REPEAT, THIS IS ONLY A TEST. WILL I BE ALLOWED TO BRING PERSONAL ITEMS TO GUANTANAMO?]

Picture the scene: a giant McCain rally barely a week before the election. John McCain is there, with wife and family. Sarah Palin is there too, with hubby and family, Bristol and Levi looking either scared or in love. The Palin fans are going nuts, speaking in tongues (ironic, isn't it, that "Drill, baby, drill!"--probably the very words that got him into this mess in the first place--are the last words young Levi will ever hear?), while McCain's supporters just look embarrassed. Suddenly, a shot. Maybe two. People scream. Someone falls. And in the chaos that follows, the shooter escapes.

And then, a shocking revelation: Sarah Palin and John McCain are unhurt, but Alaska's Golden Boy is slain. His wife-to-be Bristol is widowed, his unborn child will never know his father. The Palins withdraw to Alaska to mourn, and McCain suspends his campaign (again), this time out of respect for the dead. But in an act of sympathy for the GOP's fallen hero, the American public, shocked and saddened by this terrible, terrible loss, nonetheless gather together to elect McCain and Palin to the White House. It is a landslide victory, and Barack Obama returns to Chicago to do whatever it is that community organizers do. Whether the killer meant to shoot Palin and/or McCain, or really intended to hit Levi all along, is irrelevant: it's a brilliant stroke of luck, and the country can look forward to a golden age of government in Washington with those two mavericks in the White House.

Glory, glory hallelujah.

The real question is: Who shot Levi Johnston?

WAS IT... Barack Obama, making sure his win was absolute? I mean, his middle name is Hussein! HUSSEIN!

WAS IT... The Liberal Mainstream Media, out to get Sarah from the start?

WAS IT... Dick Cheney? What, does he need a motive?

WAS IT... just the beginning of Trig Palin's diabolical Machiavellian infant game of power and manipulation, the first moves of the unholy game of chess he is about to play with the world? Don't be fooled! It only looks like Down's Syndrome. Right now he's only dreaming. You don't want to see what happens when he wakes up...

WAS IT... Willow Palin, just looking out for her big sister?

WAS IT... Sarah Palin herself? She certainly had a motive: she wanted to teach Bristol a lesson about sex before marriage, and it's been weeks since she got to shoot a moose. And no big dumb boy is going to take her little girl away! Of course, there's the question of how she could be standing next to McCain and waving at the crowd at the rally and up in the rafters, taking aim at her soon-to-be-ex-future son-in-law, right? She couldn't manage to be in two places at once, unless...well, there's only one other person who knows how she did it, and Tina Fey isn't talking. Because if she does, it could very well be her, instead of Katie Couric, executed live on Fox News on Inaugeration Day.

WAS IT... Track Palin? Is he just looking out for his younger sister too, or has he just snapped from the Pre-Traumatic Stress Disorder? After all, we know he doesn't want to go to Iraq. Oh, don't make him go, please don't send him to Iraq! He'll be good! Unfortunately, when revealed, this controversy brings shame and disgrace on Sarah Palin & Family, forcing her to resign from the office of Vice President and also causing President McCain to bow to public demand and order a full withdraw of troops from Iraq. He then appoints Joe Leiberman V.P. and resigns from the presidency several weeks later due to health problems. Bowing to pressure from Congress, President Leiberman appoints Obama his V.P. After President Leiberman gets shot by Cheney ("hunting accident"), Obama ascends to the Oval Office, pulls a sword from Kennedy's grave, does battle with--and slays--Cheney, Rove, and Guiliani, and goes on to face Trig Palin as the devil-babe rises from his naptime and unleashes his powers on the world. Tune in next week for the thrilling conclusion.

WAS IT... Someone else entirely...someone nobody expects? Someone's evil twin? A jilted lover? Hillary Clinton? Who could it be? WHO?

WIN

2008-09-25T03:24:34Z

Is it just me, or did today play out like the climax of your average street basketball movie, where the basketball comes to a halt at the hero's feet, there is an epic pause, doves take flight, and people realize that this it it, man? Only there was no basketball. Just the election.

OBAMA: Hey, John, let's work together to save the economy, k?

MCCAIN: Sure!

(PAUSE)

MCCAIN: Hey! Everyone! I've decided to suspend my PRESIDENTIAL CAMPAIGN--yeah, my CAMPAIGN to become PRESIDENT--so I can SAVE THE ECONOMY. Let's forget about Friday's PRESIDENTIAL DEBATE and the fact that I'm running for PRESIDENT because I CARE about SAVING THE ECONOMY more than I care about RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT. This is not about the ELECTION. I want to SAVE the ECONOMY.

(PAUSE)

MCCAIN: Oh, and Obama can come too.

(PAUSE)

OBAMA: ...

EVERYONE ELSE: *Holds breath*

OBAMA: I'm sorry, you can't be president.

MCCAIN: *melts*

KARL ROVE: *bursts into flames*

PUPPIES AND ANGELS: *Descend from Heaven*

EVERYONE ELSE: *Orgasm*

A Sorry Attempt at a Book Review: "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson

2008-09-13T18:06:32Z

The Lottery: And Other Stories by Shirley Jackson

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
Haven't read all the stories here: I checked this book out from the library to read "The Lottery," and that story alone was so good I can't really justify reading the rest for free. This is something that needs to be bought, owned, and given a place of honor on one's bookshelves.

This is the first time I've read "The Lottery," and it feels like I'm about six years too late--from what I hear, this story tends to get read in high school English classes; if any of the courses I took in high school had provided this as reading material, I would've loved it. That's not to say I didn't like it now, but--after hearing about this story countless times since I left high school, and not having read it until now--the subtlety and the terror of "The Lottery" feels rather diminished by the fact that, before I even read the first line, I knew what it was about.

That doesn't mean the end isn't chilling ("It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.)--don't get me wrong, it may be one of the best damn endings I've ever read--but, to tell the truth, I really, really, REALLY wish I could read this completely ignorant of what this "lottery" everyone is so excited about really was.

Great story, yeah. I just wish the ending could be the best-kept secret in English literature, only known to those who have actually read it.

Did anyone else have that problem?

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Um.

2008-09-09T14:08:19Z

So. Um. I had this dream last night. And, um, Barack Obama stopped on the campaign trail to, um, participate in, ah, a cabaret show for charity.

And I must say, he looked pretty good in fishnet stockings, doing the can-can.

At least it wasn't the other candidate. Thank you, subconscious!

A Sorry Attempt at a Book Review: Jean Valjean's Excellent Adventure

2008-09-07T19:44:22Z

Les Misérables by Victor Hugo

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
I'm hopeless at writing book reviews. Completely hopeless. Can't do it to save my life. I usually end giving too much detail in the summary and then stumble through a dissection of the theme. What a way to butcher a book. And with a book as great as Les Misérables, I doubt I could really do it justice. Besides, I probably can't say anything about the book itself that hasn't already been said before, so I'll offer some personal reflections instead. Hopefully that works. And here we go!

When I was about halfway through Les Mis, I came across an abridged version in a local bookstore. My copy, unabridged, is 1,463 pages. The abridged copy? Less than 500. I was shocked. Even though I could tell, from my reading, that it was entirely possible to cut out nearly a thousand pages, I still read the entire freakin' book.

And so should you! Because any publisher worth his weight, and any reader worth his spit, should know that this is not "Jean Valjean Goes to Paris." This is not a jolly little story about a guy who has a handful of adventures after he gets out of jail. This is Les Miserables--Les Freakin' Miserables, a title that cannot be translated into a wimpy language like English without looking incredibly stupid--and if you want the abridged version, go see the damn musical. Which is amazing, by the way.

But whether you've seen the musical or not, if you want to read the book, you will not read the abridged version. Don't you dare consider it. Yeah, I know, Victor Hugo frequently turns away from the main narrative to focus on side characters, historical events, religion, philosophy, and other subjects. That's why this isn't called "Jean Valjean's Excellent Adventure." Victor Hugo had more than a story to tell--he had an entire world. To cut all that out, so you just have the barest amount of the original story--well, I can't even imagine what that's like.

Yes, I'll confess, my eyes occasionally glazed over during some of Hugo's lengthier side narratives. Yeah, I started to get a bit frustrated when, about 800 pages in, Hugo was still introducing characters (the middle part, that great hump, is the hardest part to get through, but after all, it was the halfway point, and Marius wasn't exactly my favorite character). And, I'll admit, I got a bit frustrated during my final 2-day, 400-page marathon for the end when, during the more exciting parts of the story, Hugo took a step back from the barricades and the escapes and the recovery to focus on, say, the history of the Paris sewers.

But despite all that, I loved the entire thing. I couldn't help myself. This fantastic novel was never intended to be a thrilling action book. If I wanted to read something quick and exciting, I would happly grab any one of those grocery store books with a two-week shelf life. But Les Mis< isn't a couple of cliffhangers and a cookie-cutter ending. This (here's where the attempt at legitimate review comes in) is a story about Life, about death, about love, about loss, redemption, faith, hope, dreams, freedom, despair--hell, this is a story about Humanity in all its glory and ugliness. And to paraphrase a certain Monsieur T., I pity the fool who thinks he can get all that in the abridged version. 500 pages? Dubya-tee-eff?

I knew, when I picked this one up, that I wanted to read something big, lengthy, and dense. I knew it would be a challenge to finish in a reasonable time, but I wasn't worried. I had plenty of free time, wanted to lose myself in a good book, and Les Mis seemed the perfect book for the occasion. And I gotta say, I was right.

Now, on to War and Peace!

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Performance anxieties? Me?

2008-08-25T13:41:08Z

I believe it was Freud, slippery fellow, who said that when we dream about flying we're really dreaming about having sex (a claim which caused Dream, of Neil Gaiman's Sandman graphic novels, to muse "then what does it mean when you dream about having sex?")--so it must say something, then, that all my dreams have me stuck fast to the ground, immobile, as if slogging balls-deep through mud. My legs feel enormous and heavy; I can barely run--I certainly cannot fly.

But last night I dreamed I was sky diving--an activity which, if not quite flying, is at least falling (almost gliding) with grace; it still involves the sky. But that's not quite the truth: I never actually did it. Oh, I was going to: I had signed up to go sky diving, I was ready to go sky diving, I wore all the protective gear and everything (in this dream, sky diving seemed to require full-body protection: a giant balloon of a costume, all white billowy material, a friggin' HAZMAT suit--I was prepared!).

And yet--and yet!--I never got off the ground. Never. Because every time I went on or near the plane, or even thought about the plane, the sheer total nervous excitement of it all (I was going to fly!) made me unconsciously pull the release cord so that, every damn time, the parachute would pop open--say it with me!--prematurely. And I'd stand there, cord in hand, parachute spilling on the ground, embarrassed. And was that pity in my fellow sky divers' eyes, or laughter? Does this happen to everyone the first time they fly?

I spent three parachutes before I woke up. I never got to go sky diving.

As if I need anyone to interpret that.

The elderly and other people

2008-08-06T17:25:03Z

I finished Victor Hugo's Les Miserables yesterday--all 1,463 pages of it--after starting it July 3rd. A decent length or time, all things considered. I may or may not be posting a semi-coherent review (I'm completely hopeless at reviewing books, but what's the point of reading something if you're not going to talk about it?), but in the meantime, some thoughts:

1. I've made up my mind about who I'm voting for (Ann Coulter for President!*), so I'm trying to avoid as much campaign drama as possible. 'Sides, it kinda says something about how irrelevant the election is when Paris Hilton gets involved. The real problem is, well, I kinda like her energy policy. As a moderate where US politics are concerned, I'm bored with the extreme Right/Left counter-counter-counter arguments. DO NOTHING! DO EVERYTHING! What about...DO SOMETHING? Why not drill for oil while working on new technologies? Well, here's the rub--because any candidate who seriously considers the idea will be mocked forever because THAT'S WHAT PARIS HILTON SAID HAHA YOU SUCK. Thanks for ruining centrism, Paris, you stupid bitch.

P.S. That swimsuit...thing...is hideous.

*Bumper-sticker idea: "Coulter/O'Reilly O'8: Betcha just threw up a little."

2. But speaking of old people, I've been kinda obsessed with Edna Parker lately. Currently the world's oldest person at 115, she's slowly working her way up the list of the world's oldest people. Everyone above her is dead, so she just keeps moving up the ranks. As of today, 6 August 2008, Parker is tied at #19 with Susie Gibson, both 115 years, 108 days. Naturally, Gibson is stuck there, but Parker keeps going. From there, it's only 16 more days to the 18th spot, and--well, all I can say is, Wikipedia may be reporting this factually and calmly, but I can imagine some sort of ongoing Vegas betting ring set up to see just how far she really makes it:

"Parker and Gibson are side by side now! They're neck and neck! Gibson is dead on her feet, Parker's gaining, looks like she could edge Gibson out of the spot! Can she do it? CAN SHE DO IT? It's the Ultimate Supercentenarian Life-Race, where every round is sudden death! Don't miss it!"

Sometimes I think too much.

3. So it's a good thing I know paradox_ninja. She's awesome. So's her family. In the past year or so, her dad, who is a doctor (or claims to be...), has hooked my head up to his computer to read my brainwaves (an interesting experience, but trust me, neural feedback hangovers are not pleasant) and--after running me through a series of simple exercises to test my flexibility and reflexes--tentatively diagnosed me with Erb's Palsy, all because my left thumb is incapable of bending independent of my left index finger. Turns out the left side of my body is slightly weaker and less developed than the right side, which was something I never really bothered to notice before, but now causes me to obsess over tiny physical imperfections which causes me to miss elections. I should probably keep my socks on until after November 4th.

BUT ANYWAY.

Paradox Ninja's mom, coyote_eyes, is a professor at UW-Baraboo, the local campus. She teaches psychology. She hasn't used me as a test piglet like Dr. Dad (yet), but she has shared some things from her classes. One thing she mentioned, from a question she put on one of her exams, was the idea of semi-plausible superheroes. That is, if you were to manipulate small parts of the brain, thus manipulating the parts of the body (external or otherwise) that those parts of the brain control, thus creating "superpowers," what would you do? Y'know, enhanced adrenaline for super-energy, refined optic nerve center for some sort of super x-ray vision, mutated pituitary glands for, um, something--that sort of thing, et cetera.

Me, I'd take the olfactory system--smell--and enhance it a bit. Really good sense of smell. Like, Perfume good. Then take that near-perfect sense of smell and blend it with whatever system controls emotion. Not emotion itself, actually; more the part of the brain that senses emotion in others. Empathy. Understanding how people feel. Almost--but not quite--feeling what they feel. Empathy. Take that, mix it with the olfactory system, and what do you get?

A nasal empath.

I smell what you smell.

Yeah, I know, doesn't make any sense. I just like the term "nasal empath." But seriously, what's your neurologically-enhanced superpower?

Writer's Block leads to bad jokes

2008-08-02T18:27:34Z

I should probably admit that I am not a hermit. It's just a label I like to cling to. I mean, I do have friends. I occasionally interact with people other than myself, and I have a job that makes me talk strangers. So I'm not a hermit. In that case, I'll settle for being solitary. I enjoy my solitude, but I'm not completely opposed to human contact, which is how I can justify occasionally leaving my hovel to meet people.

Still, I'm slightly (slightly?) misanthropic, hence the solitude. I don't like people. Oh, don't get me wrong, I like individual people, just not groups. Crowds. Strangers. I'm not entirely comfortable with people I don't know. It doesn't help that I have a poor memory for faces. I'm just not observant enough to remember people very well, unless I see them frequently. It took long enough to remember the regular morning customers when I worked the opening shift; when I switched to working nights, I had a whole new crowd to meet. And that's not taking into account the people who aren't regulars, the ones from Reedsburg who recognize me. Friends of my parents, mostly. Or people I went to school with.

Especially people I went to school with. It's been three years since high school, and my circle of friends from that time has shrunk a bit. Deliberately, I might add. The way I see it, there's no such thing as losing track of people. You keep in touch with the people you like, and forget about the ones you don't. That's why Facebook annoys me: the way I always saw it, Facebook was a way for the people who never talked to you in high school to keep in touch with you in college. But I'm not nostalgic about high school. I had a good time, sure, but I've moved on, which is why I'm rarely excited to bump into old classmates.

Yesterday, some girl came into the grocery store. She looked vaguely familiar. She recognized me. She seemed surprised, and slightly happy, to see me, so I figured we went to school together. But I couldn't quite remember who she was, so after helping her find the jugs of water and the ice, I decided to be a little tactless:

ME: Um, I hate to sound rude, but how do we know each other?

Long pause.

HER: Um, school...

ME: Oh, right! I kinda thought that. Sorry, you know how it is. It's been three years since high school, I don't remember anyone.

HER: Yeah.

She seemed slightly offended. A bit ruffled. I wasn't too concerned, since I didn't expect to see her again, or at least frequently. But in the polite obligatory chitchat that followed, she revealed that she had gone to some massage school somewhere, and was now a practicing masseuse, and all that. Bugger. I'm not the most relaxed person--usually very tense, in fact--and no doubt some sort of massage would've been good for me. But I probably insulted her by not remembering her, so there was probably zero chance of ever getting any special offers, or even, for that matter, an actual appointment.

There are probably perks to being friends with a masseuse, but looks like I don't get to find out what they are now.

I guess this is just a story without a happy ending.

On his triumphant return, he talks about giraffes

2008-07-27T19:53:06Z

Working in a grocery store, you tend to get bored. Really bored. Nothing happens, and when it happens, you tend to not blog about the nothing, often for months at a time (hello!). But sometimes, when bored about the nothing, you tend to think too much. That dang imagination runs wild.

Yesterday, I convinced a coworker that giraffes can spit acid.

There's this contest going on at the store, some drawing for customers, sponsored by some company. Winners get a trip to Busch Gardens. I don't know the full details, but next to the contest information is a small collage of pictures, chief of which is a photo of a friendly giraffe licking a small child. I've walked past it too many times to count, and there was always this tiny little thought worming around in my head. Something amusing. Then last night that worm grew wings, and I smiled, and I turned to a coworker and said, completely deadpan: "She's going to be sorry when it starts spitting acid."

HIM: "What?"

ME: "That's not safe. Didn't you know giraffes can spit acid?"

HIM: "No..."

ME: "Yeah, it's a defense mechanism. You know how llamas spit at people? Giraffes can do that too, but instead of just saliva, they actually throw up and spray stomach acid. Works against predators."

HIM: "I didn't know that."

ME: "Yeah, weird, huh?"

He seemed convinced, but he also didn't seem very interested, so I dropped the subject. But my mind was racing. I had this idea, I was running with it, he seemed a good audience. Sure, I'm not good at lies or tall tales and I wouldn't be able to keep a straight face for long, but I knew I could go on for a bit before he smelled the bullshit. He wasn't interested enough, but it would've been fun to go on:

"Yeah, I don't know how closely related llamas and giraffes are, but the evolutionary principle is the same. It's the same thing as cows throwing up their cud, too, but for an entirely different purpose. There aren't too many predators that go after a giraffe, especially since they'e pretty hard to catch, and they have a vicious kick. But if a giraffe is cornered, weak, sick, whatever, it's only got one more defense left: it throws up. Other animals do that too, but they usually bring up semi-digested food, whatever they ate last, stuff that smells bad enough to make the predator go away. But the giraffe is unique--it vomits pure stomach acid, and a lot of it. Giraffes have big stomachs, and some strong acid. Food on the savannah isn't easy to digest. Strong stuff. Any predator gets a faceful of the stuff, he's not coming back for more. It doesn't kill--at least, not always. Usually just irritates the skin, blinds a bit. But enough of a dose at once can really burn--sometimes kill.

"But that's also why giraffes have long necks. With all that muscle working behind it, they don't just spit acid--they shoot it. A full-grown giraffe can shoot a stream of acid fifty, sixty feet, and over a pretty wide area. So the predators that hunt in groups and packs all get taken out at once. Lions, leopards, hyenas. People.

"And funnily enough, that's where dragons come from. Legends of dragons, I mean. It started with an angry giraffe turning on a band of hunters and throwing up at them, and from the survivors, the legends grew. That's why tribesmen in Africa don't hunt giraffe. And by the time the stories reached Europe and Asia, the big, gruff, unruly giraffe with an unusual defense against predators had turned into, well, a giant, scaly, fire-breathing monster of myth."

I didn't tell him that, but I wanted to. I really did. I sensed a story coming on--a story that would laze about in my head for a while and never get written down (until now!), sure, but a story nonetheless. Because I kinda like this. It's a funny idea.

That's where dragons come from.

HALP HALP THERE'S NOTHING TO BLOG ABOUT

2008-04-11T19:37:55Z

Working in a grocery store, you--there's--it's--ah, bloody hell, I got nothin'.

I don't know when keeping a LiveJournal turned into a chore, but here we are. Used to be I was clever and/or witty odclay, but somehow I opted for style over substance and became boring ol' jacobford. Or maybe I just moved out and got my own apartment and became a hermit. Either way, suddenly there's nothing to write about anymore but my job, and even my job's nothing to write about. Woo, I'm some sort of semi-big-time manager-type person. Hey, my new boss is a clown (truth! The woman hired to replace the customer service manager who up and quit a month and a half ago is a professional clown with her own Wikipedia page--which is actually kinda cool, as long as she doesn't introduce new uniforms or anything). Woo, same old customers, same old muzak, same old, same old.

As for the rest of it, I got nothin'. I guess that's the tragedy of being a hermit: all the time in the world to blog, but nothing to blog about.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

2008-03-17T12:48:12Z

Woking in a grocery store, you learn to tune things out. Like the muzak. Especially the muzak--and especially when that muzak is the creepy stalker-esque oldies muzak from the good ol' days when it was considered sweet and charming and romantic and socially acceptable to harrass a girl who doesn't like you anymore with a barrage of letters despite the numerous mail returned unopened with "RETURN TO SENDER" stamped on the front, or to sleep on your doorstep all night and day/just to keep you from walkin' away/oh god another restraining order what've I done wrong?/lalala hey! but I digress. It's easy to tune that out.

The Backstreet Boys? Not so much.

And it looks like some kind and decent soul changed the muzak from Crazed Weirdo to Ye Olde Nineties. Hurrah. So instead of bands like Creepy Boy Next Door or Old Man in the Park, we get such timeless classics as the Backstreet Boys, Celine Dion (whose heart just keeps goin' on, and on), Hanson, the Spice Girls. Actually, the Spice Girls really aren't too bad. Everyone likes the Spice Girls. I am not ashamed. But don't let me go all nostalgic here. After all, despite those bland "If you remember this!...!lol" groups on Facebook, it's not like everyone grew up in the nineties. Not everyone remembers a time when Saturday Morning cartoons were actually good--and, as I found out yesterday, not everyone remembers the other great (or just too-annoying-to-forget) hallmarks of the good ol' days.

Yesterday. Pierce's Market. I was working. There was a small slow period between customer avalanches. Then the Backstreet Boys, singing about how they wanted it that way, knocked me out of my manager-ing jive. "Oh, god," I muttered.

"Ugh, the Backstreet Boys," Kelsey said. Kelsey was one of my cashiers, this high school chick, fifteen or so. Give or take a few months. Whatever. "I hate the Backstreet Boys," she said.

Kudos to her. "Yeah, someone switched it to a Nineties station about a while ago," I said. "It's been like this all week. Celine Dion, Spice Girls, Backstreet Boys, Hanson."

"Hanson?" Kelsey said.

"You know, Hanson?" I said, "Mmmbop?"

She gave me a funny look. "I don't know what you're talking about."

SHE'S NEVER HEARD OF HANSON

I feel so old.

Nowhere to go but up or down: I am Jack's indecision

2008-03-08T20:23:26Z

Working in a grocery store, there's never much to blog about. It's the same old story; day in and day out, week after week, foodstuffs and drinkstuffs and otherstuffs travel along that short conveyor belt, get scanned, get bagged, go away. It's not an exciting job. The people are the same. The muzack doesn't change (although someone recently switched the satellite radio station from Oldies to 90s, and man, I haven't heard the Spice Girls in a while). The same old job you have now is the same old job you had yesterday, so try not to expect anything new tomorrow. Nothing big will happen.

So it was a big surprise when my boss quit last Monday, two weeks ago.

There he was, ol' LeRoy, Mister CSM, Customer Service Manager, sitting there in the office, asking me how my weekend went--he cared because I was there, at the store, li'l Customer Service Representative that I am--when the company president stopped by to chat, I went down to watch the registers, and twenty minutes later he grabs his coat and storms out. Left me there holding the clipboard. Nice of him to wait for my shift to start before jumping ship. How thoughtful.

Not a big deal, really. He was a good guy--got me hooked on the original Star Trek, hurrah--but not the most competent manager I've worked with, and that upper-case R in the middle of his name annoyed the heck out of me. LeRoy. LeRoy. But the problem, the annoying thing is, he quit. On a Monday. Kevin, his predecessor, had been fired on a Friday, and the following Monday the folks in charge had replaced him with LeRoy from the Portage store, so holding things together for a weekend was no big deal. At least, I assume so; I was just a little guy back then, lane jockey, no authority or title whatsoever, so I never noticed.

Now, though, I'm a CSR, Customer Service Rep, a rung or two below LeRoy on the jumbled hierarchy of the grocery store, so I'm feelin' the heat. Where I was just a part-time supervisor, originally filling in one or two shift each week to cover the days LeRoy and Pam, the other full-time CSR, had off, I'm suddenly a full-timer. No more dividing my time between day shifts, opening the store, and bein' in charge. Now I got LeRoy's shifts. In charge five, occasionally six (overtime, bay-be!) days a week, hoo-ah.

Of course, I just have the shifts--not LeRoy's job. And, far as I know, it's all a temporary thing. The ads are out. The store's looking for a new manager. After the fifteenth, after they find someone, it's all over for me. Back to part-time, filling in for the others...

...unless Pam gets the manager spot. She's been working at Pierce's for about ten years now, knows her way around the store, certainly deserves that kind of promotion. She's much more qualified for the job than LeRoy ever was. She's got my vote. Plus, there's the possibility that, y'know, since she's currently the night CSR, so if she were to get the promotion to manager, working the day shifts, then the full-time night spot could very well open up to, oh, yours truly. How about it? 'Sides, since she and I are already full-time employees with benefits, they'd just need to hire someone new, part-time, to cover the other Customer Service shifts on our days off...

But that's the most efficient move, which means it's probably not gonna happen. Still, it's a nice thought, maybe getting that kind of promotion. I've been a full-time supervisor since LeRoy left, and I'd hate to go back to doing it part-time, opening the store and working 6-2:30 on my other days. Seems like a bit of a letdown.

Of course, part of me still wonders if another promotion is what I really want. It's not a bad thing, but still, since becoming a full-time employee (with benefits!), I've been finding more and more things anchoring me to the grocery store, to Reedsburg, to this little half-life I have. Still don't have a good reason to go back to college, but I am starting to think of other things I want to do. Other plans. But I can't just quit my job without being certain of something else--and it's becoming increasingly harder to become certain of anything else. It's a comfortable job I got there. Like I said before, if I keep working, five, ten years, where'll I be? I could have it good. I could be a part of the family.

I watched Fight Club again a month ago, while drinking, although I mostly sat staring at the wall because I know the movie mostly by heart. Good movie. Better than the book, which I just picked up for a re-read a few days ago. Good stuff. And sure, maybe Palahniuk's brand of anachy starring Brad Pitt is now too popular and mainsteam to ever be taken seriously, but the potential is there. Maybe Chuck is right. Maybe what I need is a Tyler Durden. Maybe what I need is a human sacifice.

Maybe I just need someone to Raymond K. Hessel my sorry ass.

The best we got

2008-02-21T01:24:42Z

So. Wisconsin Primary was yesterday, and I have a confession to make: I didn't vote. Really. I know, I know, it's really awful, but I do have some good reasons:

Reason #1: Ragnarok is coming! Ahead of schedule, too. See, Fimbulwinter's only been going on for a few months now, but apparently the great wolf Hati has decided to go ahead and devour the moon ahead of schedule. Total lunar eclipse? You people are just in denial.

Reason #2: I know I'll be banished from Blogdom for saying this, but I AM NOT ENAMORED WITH BARACK OBAMA. Or any other candidate, for that matter. Okay, so I was in love with Ron Paul for a while, him with the IRS-ending and the war-bashing and the awesome-making, but I eventually realized he was waaayyyy too keen on states' rights, and we all know how leaving issues up to the states went for gays in, oh, two-thirds of the country in the 2006 midterm elections. Oh, heavens no, we can't let government re-define marriage, but we sho' can let 'em de-fine it!

Reason #2: (Continued) So, no Ron Paul for me. Which leaves us with, oh, B. Hussein Obama (Ann Coulter doesn't think her readers are too bright, does she?), Madame Clinton, Mister "He's Prolly Gonna Winnit" McCain (What, you think those baby boomers and old folks are going to step aside and let us youth take over so soon?), Guy Huckabee, and Mike "Here's Lookin' at You" Gravel, who does seem kinda cool--Ron Paul without the states' rights stuff--but really, the call to "vote for the candidate you like, not the one who looks 'presidential' " only works with the front-runners who have more than a Marshmallow Peep's chance on Easter. Kinda pointless to toss away a vote on a guy who gets less than 1% of 'em anyway.

Reason #2: (Additional) And as for the other guys, well, lessee--maybe it's because I'm cynical, but Obama has yet to inspire me or make me believe in how cute and fluffy America will become if we just hope, and I just don't see anything special about Billary, and although McCain is prolly gonna win he's just another old white Republican and I don't care, and it would be awesome to have a president named Huckabee but that guy kinda scares me, so that leaves, um, nobody. And I'd much rather not vote than vote for the guy or gal I don't care about but maybe care about a leeetle beet more than the others, thank you. Here's me being cynical again but I don't think much will change no matter who takes the throne next January--see, there's this monster they call the Military-Industrial Complex, and which head would you like to lop off first? Guess I should go to Burma and join the revolution, 'cause maybe democracy needs a jump-start.

Reason #3: I noticed last night that my middle left toe is slightly shorter than my middle right toe and I was trying not to hyperventilate. Ok Jacob it's okay don't worry stop obsessing stay calm stay calm stay calm OH GOD I'M NOT SYMMETRICAL.

Obligatory Drunk LJ Post

2008-02-17T07:47:18Z

Ok, I lie; I'm not really drunk. The fact that I drank plenty of non-alcoholic liquids before and between the consumption of said alcoholic liquids prevented that. That's me, ever so cautious. But I do think it's worth noting that I finally decided that the whole "My grandfather drank himself to death right before my 21st birthday" act was getting old and morbid, and that I stopped wallowing in self-pity and had a coupla drinks with a friend. Not enough to get drunk, although I am feeling quite relaxed at the moment. It's a nice feeling--although, as it turns out, Superbad doesn't really improve much when one has been drinking. Fight Club, on the other hand, is as good as always.

Obligatory (Not Quite) Drunk Post, Out.

Fimbulwinter Blues

2008-02-12T22:31:03Z

HALP HALP THERE'S NOTHING TO BLOG ABOUT.

I've suddenly turned into what I hate the most: the silent blogger. He Who Does Not Blog. Silent for weeks, then a sudden, brief, completely pointless entry. What the hell was that? I've always hated that. If you have a blog, update it--once or twice a week, at the very least, is that so much to ask? Can't be too hard to write something slightly interesting, right? Right? Wrong. Suddenly everything goes dead, and now I can't criticize anymore because hey, lookitme, I'm that guy.

But seriously, it's winter. It's really winter. What with the snow and frost and wind, all the cold and more snow, and some extra cold to boot, it's cold and snowy and there's nothing to blog bout, except the cold and snow. And you can only blog about how it's snowed again, it's still cold, before it gets boring.

Could be it's the start of Fimbulwinter, the Great Winter in Norse Mythology that precedes Ragnarok. Three years of snow and frost and wind, of cold and more snow, and some extra cold to boot. It could happen in Wisconsin and no one would bat an eye, although they would crowd the grocery store whenever the they heard rumors of another storm on the way or the sun being devoured by wolves. If June comes and the snow hasn't stopped yet, we'll know for sure.

(Aside: Ah, Ragnarok. If there's one thing I love about The End of the World According to Norsemen, it's that things aren't sugar-coated. With the Book of Revelations, you get lakes of fire and rains of blood and swarms of locusts and plagues and death and dying, and everything is going to royally suck, and there will be a huge battle between the forces of Heaven and Hell, because God loves you. With Ragnarok, the gods don't care. Loki and Odin and Jörmungandr and friends are gonna go nuts, and everyone who gets in the way is fucked. Bo bullshitting us there. Thanks for the warning. We appreciate your honesty. Aside over)

But winter of epic proportions or no, I've become quite the hermit. When it's too cold to go out, I'm not going out--and since I already very rarely go out, I go out even less. Downward spiral. Unfortunately, if I don't go out, nothing happens--and I can only write about nothing for so long.

The good news is, it's a good excuse to avoid going home. Don't get me wrong, I like my family--but when I live only ten, twelve miles away from them, visiting for dinner is waayyyy too easy. I could stop by for dinner every night; I could see my family all the time! So why don't I? Because it's fricking depressing, that's why. If I lived a few hundred miles away, sure, I'd cherish the occasional visit home--but, when I live barely ten miles away and can stop by any time, I don't want to. Makes me realize how I've barely gone anywhere.

At least I have my Netflix. Oh, Scrubs, how I love thee. It's just a good thing I can only get one disc, eight episodes, at a time. Give me a full season at once and I'll forget the world exists. Not a bad way to make it through Fimbulwinter, of course, but I gotta go out sometime.

The good news is, partly thanks to the distractions Netflix provides, I haven't been buying any new books, thereby keeping with that birthday resolution (Aside: at some point I need to make an addendum--addenda? addendi? ok, fine, an amendment--to that "read more than I buy" rule because, y'know, what's the point in reading books if that's all I do about them? Seriously, I need to start reviewing shit. I need to make it known that I read something--I need to log my books! Seriously! Only problem is, I can't review a book to save my life. Sure, theferrett can, baeraad can, they do it all the time, but me? Need to work on it. Blargh. Aside over). 'Sides, what with this Fimbulwinter going on, I reeheeheeeally don't care to drive to Madison for a book spree. Sure, I want new books, but it's cold, roads suck, I'm a hermit. And I intend to stick to this resolution the best I can.

Of course, not spending my money on books means I can spend my money on other things like, say, the complete series of Arrested Development. On sale at Amazon, all three seasons for under $50. Nice. Gives me something to watch between my 8-episodes-at-a-time Scrubs binges. Funny, though; I'd always see ads for the show when it was on tv, and it never interested me. But, while I was in Pennsylvania last month for my grandfather's funeral, my older sister had a DVD with her, so I watched a few episodes--sitting in the chair my grandfather died it, to boot. How's that for morbid? But anyway, good show, good show. Comfy chair, too. Slightly creepy, though...

Lastly: Don't panic! Just found out the price of stamps will go up a penny starting May 12. 42 cents now. They're probably doing this in honor of Douglas Adams and nobody gets it.

Links to news stories: the last resort of the desperate blogger. Soon I'll be doing memes. This is what I'm reduced to. This!

So long, and thanks for all the fish.

The New New Year: 21

2008-01-22T13:30:39Z

It was last year around this time--well, slightly before this time last year, about a week before this time, the day after my real birthday, but circumstances this year demanded that I postpone my birthday a week, so here we are--that I decided and declared that the Gregorian New Year was bunk. Bunk for me, that was; you lovely people can still have it. It's just never worked for me. Not much sense in changing years in the middle of winter anyway. That's old bunk, the leftover shit from the early Church's ad campaign to convert those nonbelievers who celebrated the Winter Solstice or the Roman calendar, sticking Christmas and the New Year in places they didn't belong.

But I digress. My point: the New Year never worked for me. Made some resolutions, forgot them, done. And I wasted the rest of the year. Nothing changed. Then, last year, I decided to give up the New Year and the resolutions, declare my birthday the New New Year, and do things differently:

Step 1: Make some New Year's resolutions.
Step 2: Immediately renounce them all..
Step 3: Replace them with more realistic vows that actually work.

And so, for the Jacobean New Year, Anno Jacobus, in the Year 21 of Our Jacob, what have you, here are the results:

New Year's Resolution I Didn't Keep: Stop buying books.
Why Not: Who d'you think I am? I love books and I love reading books, sure, but sometimes I love buying books more. Bookstores are lovely--lovely, dark, and deep--and I'll be damned if I stop going to 'em.
New New Year's Re-Resolution: Read more than, or just as many as, I buy.
Why That Should Work: It's simple, right? I mean, I bought 201 books last year, barely read any of them. Add those to the ones I owned already, and I have a lot of books I own but haven't read. Nothing wrong with buying more books--only, I should probably try to balance things out this year. Read a new book off the shelves, add a new book to the shelves. Plow through five or six books, go nuts next time in Madison. It's worked so far--I've read a small handful of books so far this year, but only two of them were ones I own and haven't read yet. Balanced those out with two new books from Renaissance Books in the Milwaukee Airport. It's working now, and--although it'll probably be really difficult--it'll probably work later. Just gotta read fast, is all.

New Year's Resolution I Didn't Keep: Stop being a hermit.
Why Not: I quite enjoy being a hermit, thankyouverymuch. 'Sides, I live in Reedsburg. If there's anything I'm missing, it's mostly because it's not happening here.
New New Year's Re-Resolution: Don't drink alone.
Why That Should Work: I'm 21 now, with all the bells and whistles, and although I'm not really in the drinking mood (my grandfather took that with him when he went, I guess), pretty soon I'll start to think, hey, why not? Maybe I can pour myself a brandy, maybe mix a nice gin & tonic, grab a book, have a nice quiet evening. Pretty soon I'll start to wonder if it's true what they say about booze and writing, and then it's Hullo Mister Poe, fancy meeting you here. Can't have that, nosir. I know I'm just weak enough to start and never stop, and I don't want to do that. So the solution: only drink with other people. ('Sides, I can't get drunk by myself--that's laa-aa-aaame)

New Year's Resolution I Didn't Keep: Figure out what to do with my life.
Why Not: Sorry, no can do. Too indecisive.
New New Year's Re-Resolution: Be somewhere else next year.
Why That Should Work: I may not have a plan, but I need to change. New job, new apartment, new town, something. One or two or all. Working in a grocery store--working in any thankless little job--you get too used to the boring old routine. I gotta get over that. There's no good reason I should still be living in this apartment, in Reedsburg, working in a grocery store, one full year from now. Simple as that.

New Year's Resolution I Didn't Keep: Find love, have sex, become a man.
Why Not: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...HA...eh...
New New Year's Re-Resolution: Laugh more often.

So there you have it. Three serious re-resolutions, with some riders tacked on. That's a bit less than last year, but keep in mind I didn't keep all those re-resolutions l made. I think these are better, smarter, hopefully easier to stick to. Hey, less promises to keep, more energy to focus on 'em. Simple as that.

Now let's just see how well they work.

Buffalo Bill's Defunct, or: enough e e cummings references for ya?

2008-01-19T22:28:43Z

Maybe I'm judging suicides too harshly. Can't help it, really; I'm stubborn with my opinions. In my ideal world, we'd all be more rational, and people would be less prone to those fits of passion in which suicide seems the only option. And while I'm dreaming, I'd also like a pony.

Still, it was hard to be angry--or even just annoyed--with my grandfather for ruining my birthday while I was sitting in my grandmother's living room surrounded by family and food and looking through photo albums at my grandpa when he was a boy. Jesus he was a handsome man (how do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death), and so was my dad when he was my age, apparently (and at my age he was getting married, which spooks me--how'd he figure his life out so soon?), so (what i want to know is) what the heck happened to me? What, did we run out of the good-looking genes? I'm stuck with the fat face and sly shit-eating grin (and don't get me wrong, I loved Grandpop's grin) but there wasn't even a handful of handsome to throw my way when the time came? Well, happy birthday to me.

But I stand by my belief that suicides should ask permission first, or at least try to kick off with the least amount of inconvenience. Sure, my grandfather had cancer, and never felt right after that stroke a year and a half ago, and probably missed all that booze he couldn't have anymore, but he was head of the family. Didn't he have some sort of patriarchal authority to call all of his children and grandchildren together and say, my children, I am going to die. Just thought I'd let you know, see. Next Tuesday ok?

And while I'm at it, I'd like a (watersmooth-silver stallion) pony.

The memorial service was pretty tough. All those cousins and great-uncles and -aunts, the friends of my dad who showed up, those folks I haven't seen in ages or never but had to pretend to remember, ohsure, I know who you are. Service itself was short and sweet, and rather boring; I barely knew my grandfather, moved out to Wisconsin from Pennsylvania when I was six and only saw him once a year after that, then every other year, and he would provide backup when my grandmother called to sing me Happy Birthday each year. So I didn't get to be his favorite. Cousin Johnny was, that tough fishing-and-hunting redhaired monster (who used to break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat), and how he cried. I never thought Johnny could cry. Me, I got a bit teary-eyed when the Marine played "Taps", but I'm sure I wasn't the only one thinking irony when it was the black Marine who presented the flag to my grandmother. Grandpop sure loved the N-word.

Aside from that, though, I didn't really care to be there. Don't keep in touch with family enough to be familiar with anyone, and I wasn't interested in drinking with these cousins I barely know, and really, the whole trip would've been a total bust if it weren't for:

1. Philadelphia soft pretzels. Ohhohoyes. They may be old, they may be stale, and God knows what's in 'em or where they came from, but Philly soft pretzels are so friggin' good.

2. I convinced my cousin Ryan, a budding writer, that he should use his middle name as his pen name, because R. Samuel Hanson just sounds awesome. Because writers who use their middle names are cool. I'm sure I'll be awesome as J. Jacob Ford, assuming I ever write anything again, but I had an idea for a short story about airplanes and stuff that I may try writing...

3. We flew Midwest Airlines from Madison to Philadelphia, by way of Milwaukee. It's a barely-twenty-minute flight from Madison to Milwaukee, but it's the most effective way to meet up with my sisters from Minneapolis if we're all traveling together, and the complimentary cookies are good. Also, the Milwaukee airport is home to the best airport bookstore ever, Renaissance Books. Good-sized used bookstore, though the prices aren't great and the sci-fi/fantasy section needs some help. I was fortunate enough to get some browsing time between flights on the way home, and bought Pricksongs & Descants: Fictions by Robert Coover and The Stories of J. F. Powers. Mmm books.

Overall, though, the trip wasn't exactly great. And it didn't end very well either: on my way back to the apartment after getting home from the airport, a deer hit me. I'm driving along and wham, it jumps right into the side, between bumper and front left tire. Nice big dent, and the headlight is fucked up. A second sooner and I would've hit the deer instead; a second later and I would've been wearing the deer. I say, have we met? Kindly remove your hoof from my crotch.

So. A dead grandfather and a surprise deer for my birthday. Sometimes I wonder if Loki's been paying too much attention.

I say, do you mind?

2008-01-14T07:29:56Z

My view on suicide is, you don't kill yourself without permission. Life is already full of plenty of inconveniences without adding death into the mix, and dealing with natural death is enough of a bother already. But people die, that's part of life. You get old, you get sick, you have an accident, and bam, life stops for you and, briefly, for the people who have to pause and observe your passing. It's annoying but it can't be helped. But a suicide, now there's an ultimate expression of narcissism. Hey there, look at me, I considered my pain to be so great, so terrible, so unique that I could not bear to live and cope with it. My suffering was special. So fuck you all, I'm going to end it without regarding how you will be affected. Will you miss me? I hope so. Will I annoy you? Sorry, don't care.

The world would be saved a lot of grief if the suicidal asked permission first. I say, I'd like to pop off, do myself in, check out early, y'know? Does this fit into your schedule? Do you have time to grieve over my selfishness? No? You're much too busy to deal with my self-induced death? Oh. Well, I guess I'll go, er, think about my life and consider a way to deal with whatever makes me want to kill myself then, shall I?

It would work, I'm sure. No suicides without the blessings of family and friends. That way only the terminally ill would go.

And what does that have to do with me? Well, see, today is my birthday. 21 years old. Happy Birthday to me, eh? It's a good number; I can now legally purchase and consume all sorts of alcoholic beverages, whatever I want. Not that I really care too--never felt any great need to go out and get drunk, and as of today, my first day as 21, I still don't. I'm a hermit, so I'll probably have a quiet little birthday by myself, read a little, catch a movie, go home because my mom promised to make lasagna, etc. Nothing special. The special bit is supposed to happen tomorrow. My friend Brayton turns 21 then, so we figured we'd get together and have a small party of our own. Some friends, some booze, some fun. I could use the company. Not interested in getting sloshed, but hey, maybe I'll get a bit tipsy, have a good time, hang out with people, maybe-but-probably-not get a little cozy with this girl I know, assuming I decide to believe Brayton when he says she wants me...

At least, that was the plan. Instead...

Well, it would be a bit of a downer if your alcoholic grandfather decided to drink himself to death with a lovely little booze & pills cocktail barely a week before your 21st birthday, wouldn't you think?

Yeah, that's how it goes. Ironic little cautionary tale, don'tcha think?

So instead of, say, having a nice quiet birthday followed by a small party the next day in which I drink a bit and have some fun and maybe-but-probably-not get a little cozy with this girl I know, assuming Brayton isn't completely full of shit, instead I get to fly home to Pennsylvania on my birthday to go to the memorial service for my grandfather the next day and dance the grieving family shuffle mostly for the benefit of my dad and my grandmother, because, as I have little sympathy for the suicidal, I am not doing this to pay my respects to the old fucker, and it's probably a good thing that he donated his body to medicine and there won't be a casket or urn around, because otherwise I might give in to the temptation to mutilate his corpse for, oh, completely fucking ruining my birthday.

Yeah, that's it. He's dead, I'm just annoyed. He was selfish, I can be selfish.

Happy Birthday to me.

The Books of 2007

2008-01-12T18:51:53Z

I remember being slightly appalled back in January 2007 when, after compiling the list, I realized I had bought 58 books in 2006. With a trip to London and Dublin to sample the bookstores there, plus the discovery of several previously-unknown stores much closer to home, my book purchases--previously nothing special, nothing worth noting, only the occasional book bought now and then--seemed to go through the roof. Fifty-eight books? Shocking. It was bad enough that I had a smallish pile of books I already owned and hadn't read yet; adding 58 books in a year--and only reading a handful of those in 2006--seemed rather extreme.

I was so innocent back then.

After all, compared to 2007, 2006 was a rather calm year. A trip abroad and the discovery of a few new bookstores in Madison are nothing compared to, say, three online warehouse clearance sales, several cases of retiring or moving English professors at UW-Baraboo giving away old books for 50 cents apiece or less, the discovery of several more bookstores close to home, and an unholy number of trips to said bookstores to pick up a few more things here and there. Faced with all that, 58 books seems like nothing. It's tame. Because a bunch of splurges like that won't result in 58 books. The total will be a lot more than that. Something more like, say, 200 books?

Yeah, 200 books.

January: 25
Earth and Ashes by Atiq Rahimi
A Brief Conversion and Other Stories by Earl Lovelace
Suicide's Girlfriend: A Novella and Short Stories by Elizabeth Evans
The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman by Laurence Sterne
Gould: A Novel in Two Novels by Stephen Dixon
The Rose City by David Ebershoff
Illustrious House of Ramires by Eca de Queiros
Drinking Coffee Elsewhere by ZZ Packer
The Master by Colm Toibin
You Are Not a Stranger Here by Adam Haslett
A Multitude of Sins by Richard Ford
Evidence of Things Unseen by Marianne Wiggins
The Adventures of Lucky Pierre: Directors's Cut by Robert Coover
The Pugilist at Rest: Stories by Thom Jones
Eyeless in Gaza by Aldous Huxley
Time Must Have a Stop by Aldous Huxley
The Genius and the Goddess by Aldous Huxley
Antic Hay by Aldous Huxley
After Many a Summer Dies the Swan by Aldous Huxley
Gargantua & Pantagruel by Rabelais
The Good Soldier Schweik by Jaroslav Hasek
The Death of Ivan Ilyich by Leo Tolstoy
The Perennial Philosophy by Aldous Huxley
Chimera by John Barth
The Power of Babel: A Natural History of Language by John McWhorter

February: 19
The Painted Bird by Jerzy Kosinski
Cockpit by Jerzy Kosinski
Steps by Jerzy Kosinski
Stand on Zanzibar by John Brunner
Brave New World Revisited by Aldous Huxley
Before the Bombardment by Osbert Sitwell
The Case of Sergeant Grischa by Arnold Zweig
Main Trends in the Science of Language by Roman Jakobson
Saving the Appearances: A Study in Idolatry by Owen Barfield
Waiting for the Barbarians by J.M. Coatzee
Aké: The Years of Childhood by Wole Soyinka
Sweet Agony II: A Writing Book of Sorts by Gene Olson
Before the Birth of the Moon by V.Y. Mudimbe
Journey to the End of the Night by Louis-Ferdinand Celine
Islandia by Austin Tappan Wright
Looking Backward by Edward Bellamy
Sardinian Brigade by Emilio Lussu
Phantastes and Lilith by George MacDonald
The City in History: Its Origins, Its Transformations, and Its Prospects by Lewis Mumford

March: 6
We by Yevgeny Zamyatin
Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges
The Standard Life of a Temporary Pantyhose Salesman by Aldo Busi
The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood
Vipers' Tangle by Francois Mauriac
London by Edward Rutherfurd

April: 16
Woman on the Edge of Time by Marge Piercy
A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole
Zuckerman Bound by Philip Roth
Arrowsmith by Sinclair Lewis
Being There by Jerzy Kosinski
The Communist Manifesto by Karl Marx
The Mysterious Stranger And Other Stories by Mark Twain
The Promise by Chaim Potok
My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok
Gulliver's Travels and Other Writings by Jonathan Swift
In the Midst of Life and Other Stories by Ambrose Bierce
The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain by Mark Twain
The Blood Oranges by John Hawkes
The Deptford Trilogy by Robertson Davies
The Woad to Wuin by Peter David
The Wandering Jew by Eugene Sue

May: 29
Putnam's Concise Mythological Dictionary by Joseph Kaster
Handbook of Greek Mythology by H. J. Rose
Gods and Myths of Northern Europe by H. R. Ellis Davidson
Myths and Symbols in Indian Art and Civilization by Heinrich Zimmer
Classical Mythology by Mark P. O. Morford and Robert J. Lenardon
The Metamorphoses of Ovid
The Republic of Plato
The Iliad of Homer
The Odyssey of Homer
Oblomov by Ivan Goncharov
The Brothers Karamozov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Ward Six and Other Stories by Anton Chekhov
Crash by J. G. Ballard
The Assassination Bureau, Inc. by Jack London
Freedom & Necessity by Stephen Brust and Emma Bull
The Stranger by Albert Camus
The Plague by Albert Camus
Candide, Zadig and Selected Stories by Voltaire
Molloy, Molloy Dies, and The Unnamable: Three Novels by Samuel Beckett
Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett
Sonnets to Orpheus by Rainer Maria Rilke
Translations From the Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke by Rainer Maria Rilke
The Castle by Franz Kafka
Great German Short Stories edited by Stephen Spender
German Stories and Tales edited by Robert Pick
If the River was Whiskey: Stories by T. Coraghessan Boyle
The Prince by R. M. Koster
The Dessertation by R. M. Koster
Mandragon by R. M. Koster

June: 19
A History of the World in 10-1/2 Chapters by Julian Barnes
Geek Love by Katherine Dunn
The Fuck-Up by Arthur Nersesian
War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
Salt: A World History by Mark Kurlansky
Riverrun Trilogy by S. P. Somtow
The Monsters of St. Helena by Brooks Hansen
Sister by Jim Lewis
Bombardiers by Po Bronson
Animal Crackers: Stories by Hannah Tinti
Folkways: A Study of Mores, Manners, Customs and Morals by William Graham Sumner
A History of Celibacy by Elizabeth Abbott
The Discoverers by Daniel J. Boorstin
One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn
An Intimate History of Humanity by Theodore Zeldin
History of Socialism by Harry W. Laidler
Ancient History by George Rawlinson
The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius
The Portable Machiavelli by Niccolo Machiavelli, edited and translated by Peter Bondanella and Mark Musa

July: 18
The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell
The Winter Without Milk: Stories by Jane Avrich
There Are Jews in My House: Stories by Lara Vapnyar
A Drinking Companion: Alcohol and The Lives of Writers by Kelly Boler
I Am Not Jackson Pollock: Stories by John Haskell
Indelible Acts: Stories by A.L. L. Kennedy
Reflections on Violence by Georges Sorel
Pigtopia by Kitty Fitzgerald
Story of an African Farm by Olive Schreiner
Loot: And Other Stories by Nadine Gordimer
The Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits: Stories by Emma Donoghue
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling
Selected Stories by Anton Chekhov
Ultilitarianism and Other Works by John Stuart Mill
The Iron Heel by Jack London
Biting Silence by Arturo von Vacano
Petals of Blood by Ngugi wa Thiong'o
The Public Burning by Robert Coover

August: 20
Prisoner Without a Name, Cell Without a Number by Jacobo Timerman
Up in the Old Hotel by Joseph Mitchell
The Bass Saxophone by Josef Skvorecky
The Tom-Walker by Mari Sandoz
A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller, Jr.
Dragon Wing by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
Elven Star by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
Fire Sea by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
Serpent Mage by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
The Hand of Chaos by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
Into the Labyrinth by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
The Seventh Gate by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
Wizard of the Crow by Ngugi wa Thiong'o
The War of the Flowers by Tad Williams
The Children of Men by P.D. James
The Creators by Daniel J. Boorstin
Social Origins of Dictatorship and Democracy by Barrington Moore, Jr.
Capitalism and Material Life, 1400-1800 by Fernand Braudel
Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes

September: 16
Phule's Company by Robert Asprin
Phule's Paradise by Robert Asprin
A Phule and His Money by Robert Asprin and Peter J. Heck
Phule Me Twice by Robert Asprin and Peter J. Heck
One Dimensional Man: Studies in Ideology of Advanced Industrial Society by Herbert Marcuse
Democracy in America by Alexis de Tocqueville
Exploits and Adventures of Brigadier Gerard by Arthur Conan Doyle
Nicomachean Ethics by Aristotle
The Ideal Bakery: Stories by Donald Hall
41 Stories by O. Henry
The Mezzanine by Nicholson Baker
On the River Styx and Other Stories by Peter Matthiessen
Descent of Man: Stories by T. Coraghessan Boyle
This Way for the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen by Tadeusz Borowski
Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert A. Heinlein
The Road to Serfdom by Friedrich Hayek

October: 14
Empire of Ivory by Naomi Novik
The River Between by Ngugi wa Thiong'o
Pig Earth by John Berger
The Name of the Wind by Pat Rothfuss
The Snake by Stig Dagerman
Switch Bitch by Roald Dahl
The Gentleman from San Francisco and Other Stories by Ivan Bunin
Rust and Bone: Stories by Craig Davidson
Lake Wobegon Days by Garrison Keillor
The Road to Wigan Pier by George Orwell
A People's History of the United States by Howard Zinn
Adventures in the Skin Trade and Other Stories by Dylan Thomas
The Complete Stories by Flannery O'Connor
My Name is Rand by Wayne Courtois

November: 6
Cod by Mark Kurlansky
The Imported Bridegroom and Other Stories by Abraham Cahen
A Purple Sea: Short Stories by Ambai
The Neon Wilderness: Stories by Nelson Algren
The Stories of Heinrich Boll by Heinrich Boll
The Waste Land and Other Writings by T.S. Eliot

December: 12
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry into Values by Robert M. Pirsig
Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America by Barbara Ehrenreich
Adverbs by Daniel Handler
Vegan with a Vengeance by Isa Chandra Moskowitz
Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions by Edwin A. Abbott
The Man Who Was Thursday by G. K. Chesterton
Arafat's Elephant: Stories by Jonathan Tel
Rope Burns: Stories from the Corner by F. X. Toole
A Model World and Other Stories by Michael Chabon
Eating Naked: Stories by Stephen Dobyns
Dr. King's Refrigerator: And Other Bedtime Stories by Charles Richard Johnson
Novelties & Souvenirs: Collected Short Fiction by John Crowley

Pretty sweet, huh?

Ok, so why did I just do that? I may find lists of books interesting, but I know most other people don't. I'm sure everyone else would prefer individual book reviews more than a bunch of titles and links, right? Yeah, well, I'm working on that.

The real reason I posted the list of last year's books is because my birthday is on Monday. With my birthday comes my resolutions (or my re-resolutions) for the new year--my new year, not the Gregorian one. See, I realized last year that every New Year's resolution that I half-assedly make is usually broken or forgotten by the time my birthday comes around, so I decided to skip the process, declare January 14 the New New Year, and make a list of New Year's resolutions I would never keep, and what I had decided to do instead.

Those New New Year Re-Resolutions worked about as well as a regular New Year's resolution; I didn't keep them all, nosir, but I did make progress in various places. Didn't change my diet much, but I started baking vegan; didn't stop being a hermit (became more of one, actually), but I figured out how to use my cell phone; didn't develop any real short-term life goals, but I did move into my own apartment and became a full-time employee at the grocery store--and although I didn't see either coming, I can't complain too much. Still need to get back to writing, but whatever.

So is anyone surprised that the only re-resolution I followed to the letter was the one about books?

Of course, I only resolved to spend 2007 buying better books. I didn't say anything about reading them.

Guess I'll have to work on that part.

I could really be something

2008-01-07T19:56:00Z

Working in a grocery store, you don't usually get revelations. So it was nice, way back in September, when I realized I was free. There I was without a care in the world (re: no financial burdens), nothing that kept me anchored to Loganville or Reedsburg or Baraboo. I could do whatever I wanted. I could go wherever I wanted. I mean, sure, I was happy where I was, mostly, and I didn't feel any great need to pack up my things and run away to some hippie commune in California. But I could, if I wanted to. Really. I was still living with my parents, had no credit card, didn't have student loans to pay off. I was working full-time at the grocery store, sure, good ol' Pierce's Marketplace, but I hadn't been there long enough for the benefits to kick in--

The benefits just kicked in.

So here I am. I was patient; I was good. And now I have health insurance through work. I have dental. Vision. I got it made. It's another anchor; moving out of my parents' house, getting my own place, paying rent, that's an anchor. That's keeping me here. Oh, it's not too strong--I only have a month-to-month lease, so I can leave whenever I want, but now there's the job, too. Anchor.

Seems I keep getting promoted by default. There I was, another part-time college student lane-jockey, taking whatever hours I could get. Then Monica, the weekday morning cashier, quit, so I got promoted to full time, opening the store five days a week, 6 AM - 2:30. It was a decent shift; not always fun waking up at 4:30, but I had a guaranteed 40 hours every week. I was secure. I had a routine. I knew my schedule, knew when I worked, didn't need to worry.

And then one of the managers moved away. So guess who got promoted?

And suddenly, I'm not just a cashier, the morning guy. I have a title. I'm a Customer Service Representative. I get to walk around in a shirt & tie, keeping track of things, watching over those cashiers and baggers, telling people what to do. I still open the store a few days a week, but some days, some nights, I'm in charge. I have keys. I have authority. I have more money, as soon as I remind the boss who promised me a raise that he promised me a raise.

And it's a good feeling, moving up the ladder when I've only been there a year. Makes me glad I left the Village Market, where I rotted for two and a half years without any sign of advancement at all. Went there for some food a month or two ago and my old boss practically begged me to come back, said he'd make me a night manager, full time. But no health insurance, no real benefits, so I stayed at Pierce's, where I got the health insurance and other benefits. Where I was appreciated.

And really, it's all just another anchor.

Now I almost feel obligated to keep working there. I mean, I've been there long enough, worked hard enough, and my bosses believe I have worth. I'm valued enough that I get promoted, get full-time benefits. So why leave now, if I stuck around long enough to get health, dental, vision? Forget school; right now, I can't think of a good reason to go back to college, but why do I need to keep working until I figure it out? This is my time; with no credit card debt, no student loans to pay off, I could be traveling right now. I could do volunteer work. Heck, I could go to Thailand and sneak across the border into Burma and join a monastery, learn the language and local customs, plan the next pro-democracy marches and participate in the eventual revolution with the younger monks, help overthrow the ruling junta. Or just move to Canada, to the UK, get a job and an apartment and a life there. Whatever.

But I can't just leave. I have a job here. I have a place. Heck, if I keep working, in another year I could get a promotion again, another raise. Move up. There's always room for advancement. Maybe I could be a full CSR. Maybe a department manager. Heck, Jake in Dairy won't be there forever. I could do that. It's all a matter of working hard and being patient. I could be like Jason the store manager, who started out as a bagger in high school, been there fifteen years, look where he is. The lady in the pricing department has been working there for 30, 35 years. Some of the deli people have been there forever. Me, who knows? If I keep working, five, ten years, where'll I be? I could have it good. I could be a part of the family.

Except, well, I don't really want to do that.

But I don't have any other plans.