Douchy Little Vampire Kids

If, however, you like dressing in black 'cause it's 'fun,' enjoy putting sparkles on your cheeks and following the occult while avoiding things that are bad for your health, then you are most likely a douchebag vampire wannabe boner. Because anybody who thinks they are actually a vampire is freaking retarded.

I've been re-reading parts of Interview With the Vampire. Before the whole stupid Twilight craze hit, vampires had something of a resurgence (is resurrection a pun there? maybe.) in popularity around 1994, which was when I was nine.

Vampire movies that came out in the '90s:

Bram Stoker's Dracula (this movie is shitty)

Interview With the Vampire (we're gonna get to that)

Dracula: Dead and Loving It (this has a 9% on rottentomatoes, but I love it for sentimental reasons)

The release of the latter two on VHS coincided with me being maybe the most annoying age possible: 11. Or maybe 12.

Any child between the ages of 11 and 13 sucks. They're hideous ages. I decided to pair this already-traumatizing-to-my-parents age with being way too into vampires. Nothing says "I'm 12" like going to Blockbuster, buying the VHS of Interview With the Vampire, which you have of course named your favorite movie, because you're a douchy little 12-year-old -- and then having a screaming match with your parents, who had forbidden you to buy it because it was rated R, which consists of yelling lovely, totally uncliched things like "It's my money and you can't tell me how to spend it!"

I forget how I got the tape back, but I did. And then I sat in my room, playing it on a loop and looking up vampire sites online. Probably using Netscape Navigator. This being 1997, every website was on Geocities or Angelfire and looked like something your Aunt Cathy made.

There was something called "The Vampire Creed," which I printed out and put in my vampire folder, because I was an asshole and had a vampire folder. I insisted on reading this aloud and upsetting my older, recently-turned-Christian brother, who told me I shouldn't get involved in that sort of thing. Which obviously just made me get more into it.

I never dressed like a vampire. I never invented a vampire name for myself (I did have an Indian name in Social Studies -- I chose Running Deer, despite being a pudgy child who never ran), and I certainly never actually pretended to be a vampire. True to the lifestyle choices of the lazy, I only watched movies and browsed online.

And read Interview With the Vampire, the only Anne Rice I was able to make it through. This book is kickass when you're 12, and pretty decent when you're older, although I've just been skimming it, so maybe it drags or is too whiny or something. The point is: it takes place in the past, which means it's got historical stuff (+1), it has an awesome female character, Claudia (+1), and it's not overly long (+5billion).

A friend recently told me Anno Dracula is actually a pretty swell book. Does anyone else have any vampire books they think are just the bee's knees? And if any of you mention Twilight, so help me God, I will cut you.

I'm Going to Get Better at Post-Writing One of These Days

I think it's been established that I have a library problem. I have 150+ books at home that I haven't read, but I can't stop going to the library and getting more. And the books I DO get from the library I mostly either don't finish, or it takes me way, way too long to get to them.

Case in point: Slammerkin, by Emma Donoghue. It sure was great. But I had to renew it three times (which is the max for the Chicago Public Library), take it back, check it out again, and renew it one more time before I got to it. The jackass who already has the book that you want to check out? That's me. And I'm not even reading it. It's in a pile on my floor.

Anyway, continuing this asinine tradition, I went to the library yesterday to return some things, see if some holds had come in (you never know if, in between checking online and walking to the library, something's happened), and then checked out two more books. They are Brooklyn by Colm Tóibín (I def. copy/pasted that -- I'm not figuring out how to do accents on Windows) and The Tower, the Zoo and the Tortoise. In my defense, I've been interested in the latter for a number of months.

What I'm actually reading now is Landing by Emma Donoghue, because I checked that out ages ago and now that Slammerkin is done, I can get to it.

What's particularly kickass about Emma Donoghue is she's like "Forget this shit! I'm writing about whatever I want!" And so Slammerkin is about an 18th c. London prostitute and Landing is about a contemporary Canadian lady and an Irish lady who seem to be falling into, dare I say it, love? Despite the distance? And their age difference? Perhaps? I want to ask more questions but maybe I can't think of any others?

And then Room, which is about...well, we all know what Room's about. The woman is no respecter of genre's what I'm saying. Oh! AND -- AND -- she's super-smart. Like, scholarly-smart. Which is awesome. She's one of the few current day authors where, if I were in a room with her, my mouth would get all dry and then I'd just kind of stare with giant, unblinking eyes and then she'd get unnerved until I shoved my book at her and whispered in a creepy way "Sign, please," at which point she'd scribble her name and then move to the next person, leaving me a shaking leaf of a human being.

But that's just how it plays out in my head. Basically, she's really smart and really good at that whole writing thing, and I've enjoyed everything I've read so far. And I assume she's a nice person, but do we ever really know that? I've heard some people you would expect to be incredibly nice are, in fact, dicks. So maybe if I were my dry-mouthed self, she'd just stare pointedly at me, say something withering and then stalk off. But the thing is, I'd probably still love her books. So no harm, no foul, or whatever that vaguely sports-like expression is.

What was this post about? Where am I? Who put these peanuts here? I need my truss.

I Might Seem Like I'm in a Bad Mood, But I Have a Toothache, So Let's All Back Off and Let Me Complain

Okay, here's the deal with Borders: what the crap are people doing? Sure, it sucks for people who don't have a Barnes & Noble, because those two already closed most independent bookstores in smaller towns, but what's with the going and the standing in line for an hour to get 20% off an already-overpriced book that you can find cheaper online? It makes no sense and therefore annoys me, even though it impacts me not in the least.

I get that some people have emotional attachments to Borders. And to be honest, when I went home last and saw that the sign was off our Barnes & Noble, I almost had a panic attack until a store worker told me they were just getting the sign replaced.

Because all my emotional attachment goes to B&N. People tend to prefer Borders, and I get that, but there are like five reasons why, in my particular hometown, B&N is preferable (not the least of which is that it's less of a pain in the ass to park there). Barnes & Noble is where I went for every HP midnight release party. That's where I was for the release of book 7, and for the final announcement of "It is now midnight," followed by a mass cheer. If they close it, I'll probably cry. But if they DO close it, will I be waiting in an absurd line to buy a 20% off copy of The Help? No! I mean, mostly because I get most of my books from the library, but also because it's overpriced and a waste of time.

But, of course, in the end what people do with their time is their business and not my hyper-critical, overly-controlling self's. And, er, I realize that. Rationally. Irrationally I want to go in and start yelling and waving my arms about. But then, I want to do that in a lot of places.

Wherein I Am Sad About a Lack of Cross-Genreing (see what I did there?)

What’s the ONE GENRE that you wish you could get into, but just can’t?

I can't get into sci-fi. I have tried. My dad's an aerospace engineer, one of my brother's a biochemist, they all love sci-fi, and I can't do it. I try and I get bored. The only sci-fi I've been able to read and love was the Ender series by Orson Scott Card (or "OSC" as the cool kids call him), and to be honest, I don't reeeeeeally consider that sci-fi. So here I am. Reading lame Victorian novels that don't have pills for food and jetpacks. Yeah, I could read steampunk, but no, that's not happening.

Oh, I also hate fantasy novels that have names with apostrophes. Hey, fantasy authors – stop being dumb. If I have to be inducted into your stupid pronunciation system that you stole from the Welsh, I'm not reading your book. 

What a worthy post. Awesomeness check: everyone on Spotify? Everyone on Google+? Ok, good. You're all awesome.

In Which I Love the '90s

I've found myself taking an excessive amount of comfort in the '90s as of late. Let me be clear from the start: the '90s were not a good time in the life of me. Does anyone remember 6th grade? Yeah, that was 1996, and then through '99 were pretty much the opposite of a blast. So why I've been choosing to revel in pop culture from those exact years, I have zero idea.

However, in homage to that time, let's look at some pretty awesome (or at least other people say they're awesome) books from then. I need to take a break from watching Buffy and wearing plaid anyway:

Holes by Louis Sachar. Hey! That guy who wrote Wayside School wrote a Newbery Medal book! One that I still haven't read, but it won in '99 and makes the cut here.

The Hours by Michael Cunningham. This won the Pulitzer for Fiction. I love this cover, although I haven't seen it in real life. Ok, confession, I haven't heard of the other winners from '96-'99. And I haven't read The Hours, I've only seen the movie. Shit, I'm bad at this.

Oh hey! The Poisonwood Bible was a finalist in '99. Which I also haven't read. But I have a copy on my bookshelf that I got at the Salvation Army across the street from me (don't be overwhelmed by the classiness of my neighborhood) for 50 cents.

Cold Mountain was the National Book Award winner in 1997. I've actually read this. I thought it was perfectly fine. But I'll quote my friend Doug's review, because it's pretty epic:

"I would rather dip my balls in liquid nitrogen until they froze solid and broke off than read this fucktardedly insipid waste of wood pulp again. This is a 25 page story in a 250 page novel. A half a page to describe a goat?! The goat didn't even have anything to do with the story! Watch this... 'also there was a goat.' Boom. Done. Half a fucking sentence. You suck, Frazier. Fuck you."

Charming Billy won in '98! The key player in my Intro to Harry Potter story! Well, that's delightful. I remember nothing about that book except that Billy was dead and the book was all about his wake. I think.

When I was 13, these were not the books I was reading. I ignored all contemporary fiction because I thought it had gratuitous sex and bad language (kinda dropped the ball on caring about that latter item) and that, since the generations hadn't cut out the real trash, it'd be too hard to find genuinely well-done novels. Yeah. Maybe when I was 13 it was hard. Fortunately since then, I've gotten less stupid, and now most of what I read's been written in the last 50 years.

The real turning point came when I was reading something like Nicholas Nickleby and I thought, 'Okay. If literature helps us understand our world/society...how does it help me if the only world/society I understand is Victorian England?' So I decided to read contemporary stuff, and now, woo, it's pretty great.

Does anyone else remember stuff from the '90s? Granted, it wasn't that long ago, but I was pretty divorced from pop culture in general, 'cause I was a full-of-myself preteen/teenager. Also because my mother swore pop music LITERALLY hurt her ears. I seem to recall butterfly hair clips being big. That's about it.

Sleep and Its Unfortunate Effects

Bleah weekend you have too much in you.

Complaining about how busy one's weekend was doing fun, awesome stuff feels like disguised bragging that you got to do fun, awesome stuff, so let's just skip to the part where I fell asleep in a park and drooled all over the back cover of my book, shall we?

Lincoln Park's on the -- what I consider -- northside of Chicago. My church is there, and I was meeting friends there for dinner at Super-Old People Time (i.e. 4:30), so I figured I'd just hang out for a couple hours. I didn't quite realize that, what with Midnight Harry Potter and then Apartment Party Time, coupled with Ouch I Have Cramps Ow Ow Ow I Can't Sleep, if I attempted to read in the park while laying down, I would most certainly pass out. By the time I realized things were heading in that direction, I didn't care, and the next thing I knew, I woke up to several cawing crows and my cheek pressed against Gods of Manhattan, considerably damper than I had last left it.

No one let me give that book away. Or at least not with the slipcover.

It's Saturday Night and There's Some Kind of Song About That

Hey body, how about you suck it up and start being invincible?

Thursday Night, Harry Potter at midnight: Three hours of sleep

Friday Night, party in the back of my building: Seven hours of sleep.

Saturday Night, cramps: No idea yet.

So I've gotten ten hours in a few days? Which isn't bad, only I'm worried about tonight, what with cramps usually impeding sleepness. HURRY UP AND CREATE ME A BIONIC BODY, SCIENCE. I don't want to deal with being dependent on this sleepy, hummus-craving thing.

I mention the above for a few reasons. One, I wanted to complain. Two, I actually cheated and took an hour nap this afternoon, solely so I'd be awake enough to read more of Gods of Manhattan. Don't look at the cover — it'll make you not want to read it. But it's pretty rockin' as of two-thirds of the way through. I'm enjoying it quite a bit, despite an apparently straightforward plot, but then I love YA lit for 10-12-year-olds that features the hero/heroine suddenly put in a save-the-world-you-have-special-powers situation. Harry Potter, The Dark Is Rising, Percy Jackson, the first in the His Dark Materials series (all the others suck it). Awesome.

Rory had to keep himself from looking down at the endless drop beneath him.

"How far do you think that goes down?" he asked.

"I have no idea," Fritz answered. "A long, long way. My granddad used to tell us about a huge cavern deep underground where monsters live on the shore of a bottomless lake. If the creatures catch you, they tie rocks to your feet and throw you in, where you sink for eternity to the center of the earth. But my granddad was kind of full of it, so I don't know."

 What I will say for this book is that I have a really hard time focusing on one book usually, but I've found myself uninterested in all the other books I have on hold and just reading Gods of Manhattan. And the second one just came out, so, no waiting. 

All right. Time to give my body a pep talk and get it to stop watching Netflix so it can sleep.  Like that'll happen.

Harry Potter: Awesome or Mega-Awesome?

It's that day. Yeah. Chances are if you're under 50 and have any contact with the waking world, you've read the Harry Potter series multiple times and/or seen all the movies. And now the last movie's coming out, and there will be mass sobbing in theaters across the nation.

Since this is the last major Harry Potter release (at least for any time in the foreseeable future), I think it's a good opportunity to tell Harry introduction stories. What this means is how you first encountered the series. My story's fricking weird, and I hope you guys have some good ones (if you would be so kind as to share them):

My family used to spend every summer in a little place called Chautauqua, NY. It's a gated community of sorts. It has its own library, amphitheater, opera house, playhouse, cinema, belltower-by-the-lake, and it was the birthplace of the American "Literary and Scientific Circle." Not sure what that means, because the CLSC was just a bookclub, but anyway. It's a cool place, where you bike or walk everywhere and there're hardly any cars. I love it more than almost anywhere else on earth.

In 1999, when I was 14, I was obsessed with Anjelica Huston. Majorly obsessed. For realsies. I read an interview where she said the last book she'd read was Charming Billy, so I had to get it. I ordered it from the Chautauqua Public Library, and one day they called and said it was in. So I walked on down there, picked it up and started reading on my walk home.

My mother is maybe the most overprotective mother on the planet, aside from those ladies who put their kids in plastic bubbles (that happens, right? yeah). At 14, I wasn't allowed to walk down the sidewalk out of sight of my house if I was alone. Chautauqua was different, what with the big gate and all, so I had a certain degree of autonomy, but since every other warning from my mom was about strangers, I was somewhat freaked out/thrown into a panic when a middle-aged-to-elderly man started walking next to me on my way home. He finally bent down to try to see the cover of my book.

"Oh, Charming Billy. We read that last year in CLSC."

"Mm-hmm." *keeps walking*

"You know what you might like? Have you ever heard of Harry Potter?"

"No." *slows down slightly but keeps walking*

"Well, it might be a bit young for you, but it's about this boy who's an orphan and is raised by his aunt and uncle, who hate him, and one day he finds out he's a wizard and goes off to a wizarding school."

*pauses* "Really."

"Yes. I think it's one of the books for the youth section of the CLSC. You should look at it."

"I will. Thanks."

And then, he disappeared. Bam! That man's entire purpose in my life was to 1) freak me out, and 2) Tell me about Harry Potter's existence.

The youth portion of the CLSC had a program where you could read four of the books on their list, write four essays, and then you would get a book off the list for free. Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone was on the list. My family was leaving in a week and a half. I turned the last essay in the day we were leaving, grabbed my copy, and read as we drove to Niagara Falls. Halfway there, I finished it and loved it so much I told my parents we had to stop at a mall to get the second one.

I'm pretty sure if you gathered up all the love people have for J.K. Rowling into one small space, it could generate a second Big Bang. That made sense in my head. Her characters are so beloved, and so wonderful, and so human; I don't think I've met their equal. I and a myriad of others will be sad beyond reason tonight when the final movie ends, but that's counterbalanced by the joy that has been brought to life by J.K. Rowling over the past decade. I have never before seen a series that could bind so many people in happiness. I hope we'll all keep reading the series and loving JKR more each time.

Carola Woerishoffer and Why She Is Awesome

Have you ever heard of Carola Woerishoffer? Of course you haven't. Because as Americans, we hate hard-to-pronounce names, and she's basically the most obscure insanely awesome person I've ever heard of.

I came upon her name while finishing The Triangle Fire by Leon Stein (written in 1962 when survivors of the fire were still alive and could be interviewed). It's a well-paced, thoughtful and obviously moving account of the fire, the events leading up to it, and the repercussions/after-effects. Carola ('Woerishoffer' seems too forbidding) is only mentioned in one paragraph, but it interested me enough to read more about her. Unfortunately, there's not a lot of readily-available information, but there was a lengthy memorial by muckraker journalist Ida Tarbell. Here's the original paragraph I read. The setting is the shirtwaist strike of 1909, when the girls in the factories went on strike for three months. They were beaten in the streets and arrested for no legitimate reason:

Carola Woerishoffer, young, wealthy, dark-eyed, and a graduate of Bryn Mawr, did it her own way. She used her money to buy houses. Then she haunted the entrance to the Jefferson Market Court at Sixth Avenue and Tenth Street and whenever another group of arrested strikers was marched before a magistrate, she was with them in front of the bench armed with a deed, ready to slap it down for their release.

That would have been enough for me, but then I read Ida Tarbell's essay and was stunned. Carola Woerishoffer exemplified what Tarbell calls "the Revolt of the Young Rich." After the robber barons, steel tycoons and Wall Street magnates started accumulating their wealth, they had children. Who were, of course, very very rich children. And, possibly because of the socially turbulent and progressive times, they wanted to do something with their money; they wanted to help people and understand classes other than their own. Not all of them wanted to, of course, but enough that it became a marked trend. Carola worked in the steam laundries so she could report the working conditions to the Consumers' League. She did this for four months, in stifling conditions, with no hint given of who she really was.

This and the previous paragraph are two small examples of the good she did. Tarbell writes of strike funds established, factories inspected, gifts to the needy given (anonymously), and an unshakeable sense of what needed to be done, always followed up by action.

"To whom much is given, much is required"? She is one of the few I know of who lived up to and exceeded this maxim. I wish her life had been longer so that it was possible to see what she would have done in WWI and the Great Depression, but in 1911, at the age of 26, she was driving in bad weather, the car skidded and went down an embankment, and she died of resulting injuries.

Of course, the most sobering thing from all this is to look at her life, at the lives of her contemporaries, and then to look at their modern day counterparts: Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton. As my friend said while discussing this topic, "Sometimes I hate today."

I Lied About That Not-Making-More-New-Posts-Today Thing

Hey, I'm not posting tons of pictures in one blog post. That's CRAZY. So here's my last new one for the day, because with the sweet, sound passage of time comes NEW READATHON CHALLENGES.

. Take a picture (using your camera, webcam, phone... whatever) of where you're reading today for the readathon, or your favorite places to read.

Okay, when I first saw this I saw it as WHAT you're reading, so first you're getting a picture of that.

Yeah. That book. I actually really love it, so ignore my face. IF YOU CAN.

I like to read out back of my apartment. There's a back stairway that probably doesn't pass fire codes, but whatever, I'm sure it's fine.

I guess I should finish Middlesex now. Oh, and I'm extending my time past 9 o'clock because, y'know, my time at church should totes be subtracted. I refuse to be punished for my beliefs! Freedooooom!

Mini-Readathon Main Post for Updatin'

I'm not gonna flood your Google Reader feed with posts, so here's the thing I shall go back and edit.

12:58 p.m. Back from church with lunch canceled, I have made myself three more tacos. Now, with tacos, I like to use the Old El Paso taco kit for soft tacos, get the highest quality beef I can (let's not be stingy with that extra dollar, people), and buy Kraft Shredded Sharp Cheddar, and lastly, Cholula hot sauce. Why? Because my mom used those brands (excepting the latter, which I picked up on taco journeys with friends) and damnit, I like them. Three tacos down for the day, and when the Italian place around the corner from me opens, I'm buying some Mexican Coke. FIESTA CON LIBROS.

As for books..er...I read part of Middlesex on the bus, and now I shall continue that fantastic journey.

Delicious taco remnant

3:54 p.m. Nearing the end of Middlesex which is, of course, awesome. Also getting laundry done and baking potatoes for tomorrow, so BAM. ProDUCTIVE. The store by me opens in six minutes, at which point I will get my Coke Mexicano or whatever you want to call it.  I've been reading in my room and out back of my building. Basically, readathons are awesome, although this does stymie my desire to marathon Buffy today. Alas! In everyone's life, a little rain must fall.

4:22 p.m. Middlesex: "I worked for the college radio station. I used to get all kinds of free records. And if I liked a girl, I used to dedicate songs to her." He gave me a sample of his style, crooning low: "This one goes out to Jennifer, queen of Anthro 101. I'd love to study your culture, baby."

4:39 p.m. MEXICOKE ES MUY DELICIOSO, SI SI.  Also, Elton John's recording of Chapel of Love is currently my favorite thing of ever. READATHON! 

7:07 p.m. Five pages from the end of Middlesex. Taco Time shall resume soon. I have had four today. Pathetic. 

8:28 p.m. Too much Cholula is a terrible thing. Just enough Cholula is delicious. 

8:40 p.m. Eleven tacos and I am out of taco meat. Oh, and I finished Middlesex and am onto the ever-cheerful Triangle Fire by Leon Stein.

9:24 p.m. Taking extended break to watch part of The Birdcage and listen to Shrek the Musical. You heard me. 

11:18 p.m. Done, with 22 pages left of The Triangle Fire. I consider this a semi-successful readathon personally.

FINAL CHALLENGE

1. How many books and/or pages were you able to read?

Er...probably 200 to 250? I actually have no idea.

2. About how many hours were you able to read for? (Were there many distractions, breaks, etc?)

Ah. This would also be difficult to answer as I have internet-wrought ADD and cannot sit still for long periods (unless it's in front of a computer). So there was a lot of moving around of reading locations and breaks to listen to music/watch parts of campy '90s movies/update this blog.

3. Do you have any likes/dislikes about the 12-hour readathon, compared to a 24-hour readathon?

Yes! I am very much a fan of it not being as grueling a process, as the 24-hour one rather intimidates me. But of course, there seems to be a sense of camaraderie that is akin to going through a war together with the 24-hour one. This was easier to fit into my day, and I am a fan of mini challenges.

4. Favorite and least favorite books that you read today?

Well. One was about a hermaphrodite and one was about over 100 women who died in a factory fire in 1911, so neither's a huge upper. But Middlesex is one of my favorite books of the year, so let's go with that.

5. Do you have any suggestions for things you'd like me to do differently if I host another mini-readathon?

Well, that just seems means after all the trouble gone to. I guess encouraging people to temporarily turn off the 'person verification' words one has to type in to comment? As that kind of discouraged me from commenting more in people's blogs.

It's Mini-Readathon and TacoFest Time

Due to my own idiocy involving scheduling and meals, TacoFest 2011™ had to begin last night. How many tacos did I eat? Well, that'd be five. Let's see if we can't do way more today.

I woke up at 9 and so let's do challenge #1 for Sarah's Summer Mini-Readathon! Woooooo!

1. Tell everyone three random things about yourself:
- I think cryptozoology is the shit.
- I am a 26-year-old elder at my Presbyterian church.
- My favorite word is monkeypants.

2. Is this your first readathon?

It is my first officially sanctioned readathon. YEAH!

3. Do you have any specific goals for today? (# of books or pages to read?)

I want to finish two, but they're probably gonna be two I've already started, as I am a super-slow reader. Finishing Middlesex'll probably take me a while, but that doesn't matter 'cause it's amaaaazing.

4. Do you have any specific snacks, drinks, or books planned?

TACOFEST 2011™. And I'm cheating by pausing after church and going to lunch with my friend. Oops.

5. What hours do you plan on reading during? (For example, I'm aiming for 10 AM to 10 PM Eastern time).

9 a.m. to 9 p.m. Central time (aka the best time).

In Which I Am Angrier With Victor Hugo Than I Originally Intended to Be

It's Friday. The week of 4th of July is over, and with it any chance of my workplace being closed until Labor Day. Alas and alack.

So! Let's close this week with an awesome quote by a man I have ambivalent feelings about: Victor Hugo. Because of my major, and a reading plan I formulated in high school, the works of his I've had to read are Les Miserables, L'Homme qui rit, and paaaaart of Notre Dame de Paris (i.e. Hunchback of Notre Dame). I put aside the latter because I occasionally hate Hugo, but I intend on finishing it..er..."someday." Yeah. Then.

Before I redeem him slightly by posting this lovely sentence, let me talk a bit about him and why he sucks.

Bypassing, for the moment, his 'Bird's Eye View of Paris' chapter in Notre Dame, which was SERIOUSLY the most unnecessary bit of reading I've ever had to do, except maybe for translational theory, in the book L'Homme qui frickin' rit, he's like "Oh! a chapter on the British House of Lords. How about I tell you the history of it and the architectural style of the building and where everyone sits and what everything's made out of. That'll help, right?"

I just want to hit that man. Just whap him in the face.

As for 'Paris a vol d'oiseau,' it inspired such rage in me that I hesitate to think back to that afternoon spent on my parents' front porch couch reading it. The whole thing talks about the skyline of Paris. Being a half-French-lit-major, I had to read it in French. So here we had a 150 year old book talking about French architecture using outdated 19th French architectural terms, i.e. a chapter that would've been deathly boring in English caused me to have homicidal thoughts when in French. 'I hate it,' is a pathetic way to put it when considering the vastness of my hate.

But. When not going off on his misguided attempts at painting a picture with words, he occasionally throws in a nice sentence. In L'Homme qui rit, the main character, Gwynplaine, is deformed (like a lot of his main characters). And at one point, speaking of him, Hugo makes the statement:

 L'âme est pleine d'étoiles tombantes.

In English, "The soul is full of falling stars." It's my favorite sentence in French, and for that, as well as a few other choice phrases, I forgive Victor Hugo for being an ass.

What is one of your favorite literary devices? Why do you like it? Provide a definition and an awesome example.

While I'm a big ol' fan of malapropism, I'm going to have to be lame and pick characterization in order to talk about what I want to talk about. For those somehow unaware of what it is, it's "the method used by a writer to develop a character. The method includes (1) showing the character's appearance, (2) displaying the character's actions, (3) revealing the character's thoughts, (4) letting the character speak, and (5) getting the reactions of others."

My favorite thing in all literature is when a seemingly stoic, impenetrable character suddenly cracks and we see a breakdown, revealing her humanity. It. Is. Awesome. My first memory of reading this and loving it is Dorothea in Middlemarch (avast, all ye,  for spoilers be lyin' ahead). For almost all of that rather long novel, she's calm and in control. She knows exactly what she wants for her life and she is sure of her steps all the time.

AND THEN SHE SEES ROSAMOND MAYBE LOCKED IN AN EMBRACE WITH WILL AND SHE IS DISTRAUGHT

Oh, how she is distraught. It's fantastic.

There's something vaguely similar in Adam Bede, also by George Eliot, for she is the queen of 19th c. fanfic. It also happens in Robert Jordan's book Eye of the World when Moiraine, kickass Aes Sedai, starts screaming. I read that in high school and I froze when I read it, because nothing makes Moiraine scream. NOTHING, I SAY!

Screw plot and give me characterization any day.

Planning! Preparations! Snacks!

For those of you who don't know me IRL, I'm a planner. My greatest joy in life is planning. When I contested this, my friend who lives in Boston countered with "When you visited me, you arrived with an itinerary."

True. But! because of this itinerary, we were able to pack in seeing as many old houses as possible. Also, despite flying into Boston Logan, I spent precisely zero time in actual Boston. I made my friend go to Cambridge, Salem and Quincy. And a jolly time was had by all, if you count touring a Unitarian church a jolly time (you should).

So I'm pretty jazzed about this upcoming readathon and have started to plan accordingly. My Comparative Lit degree has slowed by reading speed down to an embarrassing degree, so I in all probability won't actually get much done. But I like to have a vast selection, so these are my current choices:

Short Stories, Henry James

The Throne of Fire, Rick Riordan

Open Secrets, Alice Munro

Waiting for the Barbarians, J.M. Coetzee

Slammerkin, Emma Donoghue

Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides

The Triangle Fire, Leon Stein

Daughter of the Blood, Anne Bishop

Gods of Manhattan, Scott Mebus

That's probs enough, right? Right. I'll most likely get through like half of Gods in Manhattan and then call it a day. So it goes. But I have super-awesome plans that I just now formulated, and they involve...ALL DAY TACOFEST! Can you imagine it? A whole day filled with tacos. I might even buy some Mexican Coke at the Italian place around the corner from me (yes, they're mixing cultures, but you're just being a negative Nelly).

So, 10 hour readathon. All day tacos. Are any of you participating in this? Because if you aren't, what better excuse for an all-day food marathon?

Readathons, and Whatever Else I See Fit to Discuss

If you all don't know about Sarah's Mini-Readathon over at Sarah Speaks, you should check it out. It's this upcoming Sunday and going to be mega-awesome. I'm forsaking a Buffy marathon to do it, so yeah, it's kind of a big deal. 12 hours, although I'll probably do like nine. But I'm gonna liveblog it, and if you were here for my last mini-readathon, you know it's scintillating stuff. Like that part where I wrote about eating hummus? You don't find that shit on your everyday blogs, people.

I should probably make my blog snazzier. I just chose the most work-friendly template, as I have people looking at my computer screen all day long every day. If you actually click over to it as opposed to Google Readering it, expect some weirdness today.

All right, let's wrap up this completely necessary post with a fun fact: Henry James was gay, and he and Edith Wharton were BFFs, so I like to imagine them going to non-existent gay bars together and dancing to Katy Perry.

My First Post in Which I Do a Slightly Unlazy Thing

Hey, it's 4th of July almost, right? And that's, like, a celebratory time. Let's do a giveaway! I have no idea how this works, except I guess people comment to enter and then I use some randomizer thing, right?

Because this is a spur-of-the-moment thing, comment if you want my fantastic, perfect-condition-but-read-by-two-awesome-people copy of The Bedwetter by Sarah Silverman. After I pick someone, I guess I'll message them or comment in their blog/whatever to get their address.

You can tell which giveaway's mine by the fine attention to detail. Oh, and I guess you have to be a follower. I'm not having random nutjobs getting my book. And I guess this runs until...Wednesday? Yeah, sure, Wednesday.

Edit: Aaaaaand the only entrant, Red, wins! Woooooooooo!

Where I Kind of Defend Sarah Silverman, Which I Personally Am Surprised By

 Here we go. A book review. To the extent that I can do one. I also want it known that this was written while listening to Taylor Swift, so if it has the faint air of teen angst and brooding over high school boys, that's probably why.

The mentioned-in-a-different-post Katie and I were at Books-a-Million downtown, and this was in the bargain section. Despite my Sarah Silverman reservations, I really like the cover, so I read the foreword. It was hilarious, I showed it to Katie, we bought it, she read it overnight because SHE IS THE FLASH when it comes to reading, then she gave it to me. It took me two days, which basically means it should be the fastest read ever for anyone else.

When I asked her how it was, she said "Depressing," which left me rather perplexed. It makes sense, though, after reading the first few chapters. About half the book will harsh your buzz on life. She talks about some really tough things, but I kind of felt like maybe that was part of the joke — Sarah Silverman's writing a book and you expect it all to be hilarious, but instead it's this pretty serious stuff, like her dealing with depression as a kid and subsequent addiction to Xanax.

BUT, it is also hilarious. This is her talking about her bedwetting problem (which extended well past the normal age) and how her parents sent her to summer camp anyway:

Summer camp, salvation to both my mom and dad — was, for me, a camp-fiery hell. My teeth were bigger than my face, I was coated in hair, and I smelled like pee. Of course, most events in life are about context. Had my parents instead sent me to live in the Baboon Reserve at the Bronx Zoo, I would have been happy and confident, judging the others for flinging poo, and feeling downright aristocratic.

Chapter titles like "I Am Awakened to the Existence of Harvard, and to My Not Having Gone There" made me extraordinarily happy, as I love a good title, and the book as a whole was pretty great if only because I feel slightly less condemnatory towards her now. She talks a bit about her comedic process, and why she finds certain things funny, and it also becomes clear that she's not an unfeeling asshole prepared to do whatever to shock the public.

In case you're like "Why am I even looking at this review? Who is Sarah Silverman? This isn't my house. Where am I?" then I have included this handy youtube vid of her. It's pretty awesome and that's all I've got to say about that. REVIEW DONE.

An Entry That Barely Belongs in a Book Blog

It's 4th of July weekend, which means I'm at my parents' house, watching episode after episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer with my 15-year-old brother and struggling not to gain ten pounds due to all the readily-available fast food. See, that's a benefit of living in a city with no car: fast food can be a pain in the ass to get to. You have to go out of your way to find it, and in all likelihood you'll pass several other better-for-you options on the way, all tempting you to eschew your plans and get a salad at Au Bon Pain.

When you're in a medium sized city/town with a car, it's basically either cook something yourself, which involves driving to the store, going in, buying stuff, going back out, driving home, bringing in said stuff, and then doing cooking things, which I don't even know how to do — either that or you drive to Wendy's and get fries, a chicken sandwich and a Frosty. Doesn't that sound amazing? Yes, it does. And despite buying a foxy new dress today, I would risk gaining the weight in order to eat said amazingness, because, as my mother says, "you have a strange relationship with food, Alice."

How is this about books...ah yes, in the spare minutes between seeing Buffy in a new, feministy light and driving to Dairy Queen (we have a policy among siblings that if someone proclaims 'shenanigans,' we go out and get milkshakes or a similarly delicious fast food item), I've been reading Middlesex and Sarah Silverman's book, The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption, and Pee. Quite frankly, despite my undying love of comedic essay collections, I'd stayed away from the latter because I'm on the fence about Sarah Silverman, comedy-wise. But my friend Katie and I found it at Books-A-Million for like $6, and the first sentence of the foreword sold me:

When I first selected myself to write the foreword for my book, I was flattered, and deeply moved.

Nice.

I think I'll do an actual review of this one, as I've found it generally much more enjoyable than I ever thought I would. As for Middlesex, it is excellent, but Oprah already told everyone that, so who am I to echo her opinions?

Oh! I've also spent the weekend thus far showing my parents drunk youtube series, namely Drunk History and My Drunk Kitchen, prompting my mother to ask: "Is getting people drunk the new funny?"

My mother obviously has nothing to do with pop culture, ever.