I can’t tell you which book I loathed more: the one that was 342 pages or the one that was 368 pages. 368 pages were, let’s face it, 26 pages longer than 342 pages. But the 368 page book had a larger typeface, which meant that each book took just as much time to read.
As I turned each page, I realized that it was impossible for me to love anything. I despised the characters, I despised the plot, I despised the writer. Sometimes, I even despised myself. Hatred coursed through my veins as my eyes scanned each sentence. I hated the subject. I hated the verb. I hated the subject-verb agreement.
Why should I give any book a chance when it was so easy to hate? The authors had sweated years, but I had sweated hours just reading. I took both books and threw them against the wall. Then I picked them up and threw them against the wall again. And again. Until there was a few dents. Yeah, that will teach you, books. Then I unzipped my fly and urinated on one book. And when I was done, I pissed on the other.
Then I scooped up both books with a dustpan and took them outside and urinated on both of them in public. I was careful with my micturition, making sure that I hit Page 362 in the longer book.
Then I unleashed a torrent of epithets on the books just to show them who was boss.
Then I went back inside and sat down to the computer and wrote this post. I don’t have anything to hate right now. But I’m pretty sure I’ll come up with something. Permit me to reflect.
I still hate both of those books. I will go on hating them until the end of my days. In fact, I’m scowling right now just thinking about the author of the 368 page book. And if these two books have their defenders, then I will hate them.
I hate this blog. I hate you.
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (
You know, you’re not supposed to actually read those books they have in Doctor’s offices – you’re supposed to plan ahead and bring your own.
That’s funny; I like you very much you sexy vixen…