Mysterious strangers and flesh-eating evangelicals Sunday, Sep 7 2008

There is a new(ish) Tales of the City book, & I’m trying to get caught up before I read it.  I got a few pages into this one and realized that I’d already read it but no matter; it’s always a pleasure to spend a few bus rides with Mr. Armistead Maupin.  

Now, all of the Tales books are a little on the soap opera-ish side and I do treasure that about them, but this was even a little more campy than most, what with Michael developing some kind of paralysis that reminded me of the unpronouncable fake illness that plagued Pamela on Dallas, amnesia, mysteriously appearing and disappearing relatives, and so on.  

 

Actually, now that I think of it, that is all par for the course with these books (I just remembered the one where Jim Jones turns out to be alive and living in Golden Gate Park, and then gets murdered and buried in someone’s backyard), and I love it.  

Another thing this book has going for it: the appearance of punk rock kids! Including some sort of punk rock hired assassin 14-year-old named Douchebag, who likes to stick bubble gum up her nose.  Ah, the gritty realism.

These books rule. Now, in the spirit of maudlin twists of fate and paeans to a city from long ago, I am reading some Dickens.

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One City, One Book: Your mom’s book club edition Sunday, Oct 14 2007

This whole book club phenomenon is interesting. On the one hand, I feel like Oprah’s Book Club has greatly improved the quality of books you can find at the airport or a bad book store and has gotten me out of many a tight spot, like receptionist jobs where I would finish my book by lunchtime and be faced with an entire afternoon of playing solitaire.

Also, I love the lists of questions they have started putting at the end of these books, such as: “Elisabeth called all her descendents to her bedside when she knew she was dying. What were the long-term repercussions of this act for her family?” This brings back fond memories for me of the Great Books program in my elementary school, whose point I never really understood but was a great way to get out of class and spend the afternoon windbagging about some silly Ray Bradbury story.

On the other hand, I think maybe it leads to books that are better understood as  conversation starters for your afternoon scrapbooking session than as, I don’t know, books. Take Cane River. Written by “a former vice president of Sun Microsystems to immerse herself in family history” via a UC Berkeley Extension writing class (rad!), this book traces the author’s family origins from slavery in Creole Louisiana to relative prosperity in 1930s Louisiana.

You can tell it is meticulously researched, and she found great records, from a written family history to tons of court records to a series of newspaper articles about the murder of someone in the family. I would be much more interested in reading about that process from a first-person perspective than in the awkward narrative she constructs from it. I think that this might, however, have been a marketing decision, based on the many, many book clubs (including Oprah and One City One Book) that probably prefer the novel format.

Personally, I think that slapping a treacly narrative on top of Tadeny’s meticulous research robs this story of its inherently good qualities. And as one alumnus of the UC Berkeley Extension to another, I have a tiny word of advice for you: Sentences like “The day was cold and foggy, like his spirits” should be avoided, if possible. For more information, I recommend the the Extension’s copy editing certification series of classes.

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Entertainingly, Semi-Frustratingly … Adverbs Sunday, Sep 30 2007

I am rooting for Daniel Handler because: (1) he lives in San Francisco, (2) I adore the name Lemony Snicket, and (3) I have read hilarious little snippets from/interviews with him in the Media.

This is a book for grown-ups, unlike the famous Series of Unfortunate Events. And I am somewhat reluctant to call it a novel because for me it never really coalesced into a coherent whole — it was more like a series of short stories about people with the same names. The theme, also, was something cheesy like: That’s How Love Is. Now, Mr. Handler/Snicket, I am sure that the author of last month’s hilarious piece in Ready Made — an article about redecorating one’s fridge that made me laugh out loud — could come up with something better or more interesting than that. Or am I just totally insensitive and unromantic, as usual?

This was too uneven to be an especially good book. Parts of of it, however, are very good and most of it is fun, which all in all is more important than consistency or coherence in my book. I hope Mr. Handler/Snicket keeps cranking out the books because I am sure one of them will be excellent. I have now resolved to read the Lemony Snicket books.

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Thai Prisons, Naval Defections, Nipple-Ringed Aristocracy, and Mr. Darcy Sunday, Sep 2 2007

Last Sunday, I was sick and in bed with two scions of chick lit, Armistead Maupin and Helen Fielding. Good times.

First, Maupin’s “Babycakes.” (Am trying to get up to date so I can read his latest in the series, which for some reason is neither available in my local library nor from my estranged friends at booksfree.com.) He is in his usual fine form in this book. It is the 1980s now, so Mary Ann is into aerobics and everyone in England has that awful Princess Diana haircut. I love the subplot with the errant British navyman and his secret carny/midget bloodline; the whole Michael/Mona/Lord whatsisname plot is hilarious; and all the bad local television in the book made me miss the days when I had access to the hilarity of the newscast on KRON 4. (Are they even still around? I fear they are not because I can never find it when I’m watching TV at the gym.) Good stuff — I highly recommend it.

Having whetted my appetite for light, entertaining fare, I moved on to “Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason,” which for those not in the know is the sequel to “Bridget Jones.” The book is a little embarrassing in those rare moments when it takes itself too seriously, but much of it was funny enough that I was laughing aloud on the train. (B at pompous dinner party full of lawyers: “The point is that you are supposed to vote for the principle of the thing, not the itsy bitsy detail about this percent and that percent. And it is perfectly obvious that Labour stands for the principle of sharing, kindness, gays, single mothers, and Nelson Mandela as opposed to braying bossy men having affairs with everyone shag-shag-shag left, right, and center and going to the Ritz in Paris and then telling all the presenters off on the Today program.”)

I found it so poignant how B.’s relationship is nearly spoiled by her application of the knowledge gleaned from self-help books to which she is addicted; I myself reach the brink of divorce nearly every day because certain people in my life do not appreciate the wisdom that I glean about relationships from the ladies’ magazines I can’t stop reading. You know, What Men Want and so forth. Apparently, what they want is for us to stop quizzing them with questions about their commitment level from the popular media, but that is impossible because it is so fun to do that. Anyway, Bridget at least prevails in the end.

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My insensitive review of the Kite Runner Saturday, Aug 18 2007

Everybody loves this book, and I agree that it is fairly well written, provides a fascinating insight into history of Afghanistan, and it is great to see Fremont and Bernal Heights featured in new Oprah’s Club lit, etc. etc.

However. Perhaps because I have been tainted by the extremely brave heroes of children’s literature (hello, Harry Potter!) — I never really got over my semi-disgust for the protagonist of this book. Early in the book, he stands by and watches something really bad happen to his best friend out of a combination of fear and misplaced elitism.

Now, this is probably realistic and everything, and I am not claiming to be braver than the narrator. But at the same time, it is morally reprehensible. And I personally had a hard time getting over this and mustering up any sympathy for him for the rest of the book. Is that unfair?

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Looking down on us: The Potrero View delivers to SOMA Saturday, Jun 16 2007

When I lived in Potrero Hill, the Potrero View had these funny posters that said: “Don’t let Potrero Hill Become Another South Beach!” A noble sentiment, and on the whole I agree with them, but I think it is funny that now they are soliciting business in the neighborhood they so revile: I noticed newspaper boxes on King St. the other day, and now I am getting issues in the mail.

OK, so what’s going on with the old neighborhood? A new food and wine store run by a nice-seeming family opened on 23rd and De Haro. This would have rocked my world! Environmental racism, which has always been a big deal in the neighborhood because of PG&E, etc. People have been walking over the hill from the projects and breaking into cars (this happened to us at least twice that I can think of) and, my favorite, Carole Migden pens a column about all of the good things she has done while in office. Ms. Migden has been on the defensive ever since her little car accident. In general, I have always enjoyed the View’s propaganda columns by local politicians. They make me feel like an important constituent.

In sum, I like the View. Also, I am trying to write kickier titles for my posts, as per the chief’s marketing advice. How is that working out for me?

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Hunter S. Thompson: Fear & Loathing On the Campaign Trail ‘72 Sunday, May 6 2007

This is one of Aura’s old books and has been sitting on my shelf ever since I inherited it. It’s a collection of Thompson’s dispatches to Rolling Stone magazine during the presidential campaign of 1972: strangely riveting. If, like me, you were not even born in 1972, I recommend keeping a copy of All the President’s Men nearby because that book has a whole index of the cast of 70s political characters, with photos, in the front.

My beloved magazine writing professor in college was Hunter S. Thompson’s editor at RS back in the day, and he was pretty vitriolic on the subject of HST. I kind of empathized with him while reading this book. HST’s prose is so good when it’s good, but sometimes devolves into total incoherence when he is close to a deadline (this happens to me too) and there are places where it is his handwritten notes or transcriptions of his tapes because he just did not finish on time. One chapter, and you really feel the editor’s pain here, is just a transcribed interview between HST and some poor editor, because HST must not have handed anything in.

Highlights: a limo ride with Nixon because Nixon would only let a journalist who knew about football ride with him and HST was the only one who did; HST interrogating McGovern at a urinal; HST letting some random drunk guy steal his press pass and the guy comes to a Muskie press conference and drunkenly claws at Muskie’s feet, demanding that Muskie fetch him more gin, everyone thinks it’s HST because of the press pass, everyone attributes Muskie’s implosion to the failure to control this press conference, and a footnote points out that this event was later widely attributed to Nixon’s sinister CRP sabatoges of rival presidential campaigns.

Why do I have so many books about politics of the 1970s? I have no idea. I am looking for some fiction to read but I keep missing library hours. I tried to read the chief’s Proust and it is too boring even for me. Ideas? Because I really don’t want to start in on the computer books. Or the philosophy books.

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The Economist Saturday, Apr 7 2007

OK, nothing competes with the quote from the Brazilian president in last week’s issue (“We haven’t managed it yet, but I know if we keep trying George Bush and I will find the g-spot of fair trade agreements.” Dear God! I will never be able to think of the FTAA without imagining those two great leaders fumbling around in the dark to please poor, unsatisfied fair trade.) Highlights from this week include coverage of San Francisco’s plastic bag ban, which the Economist actually supports with only the requisite snarkiness (“Karma is with us,” one of our supervisors declares at the beginning of the article).

Lexington discusses the Colbert Report and the Onion and gets in a dig at U.S. media (the Onion’s headlines “would not be so funny if those in the New York Times were not so ponderous” and “Mr. Colbert’s show would make no sense if cable-news blowhards such as Mr. O’Reilly did not exist.”) Ok, now I want to write a news magazine satirizing the Economist because they are just a little too smug about American media. I was just telling the chief and Jake about one time the beginning of the magazine mentioned a Simpsons episode where Homer Simpson was reading a copy of the Economist with the headline “Indonesia: at a crossroads.” Then, 40 pages into the magazine, the Economist had an article called “Indonesia: at a crossroads.” Ah, the wacky English.

This week’s jauntiest pair of headlines: “Funky monkeys” and “double trouble” about some weird s*#& scientists’ve discovered about human and monkey twins who wind up swapping stem cells in utero so that they have two different kinds of DNA in their bodies. The chief is obsessed with this, possibly because of the potential for a new kind of comic book superhero. I don’t knew enough science to really get excited about these sorts of things.

When you read the Economist, are there entire sections you skip out of bigotry? I, for example, always read the United States section and Latin America and the Middle East and some of Asia and Europe, but I routinely skip 1. Canada and Australia, 2. most of England and 3. the loathsome tech quarterly, which I suspect is too technical for muffinheads like me and too muffinheaded for people who actually know about technology. But does this mean I am a big racist against Canada? For some reason, I can’t bring myself to even approach that section even though some of their politics are admittedly entertaining and, you know, they are nearby and everything. Maybe if they elect someone really colorful with a toupee and mob connections who yells “beam me up scotty”from the floor of their parliament or whatever they have, like the erstwhile congressman Traficant, I can get excited about them.

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McTeague by Frank Norris Sunday, Mar 25 2007

This “minor classic” (according to introduction) takes place on Polk Street in San Francisco at the turn of the century.  It is part of that funny scandalously-realistic-depiction-of-the-common-man-according-to-some-rich-kid genre, so it includes lots of interesting detail about daily life in San Francisco at that time.  For example, did you know that tamales have been an integral part of the San Francisco bar scene for at least a century?  At that time, there was a tamale man instead of a tamale lady and he sold tamales in street kiosks near the bars, instead of on that rad bicycle cart that the tamale lady pulls around to all of the bars.  But it seems to have filled that same late-night dinner/bar food niche.  Mmm, tamales.

The story describes the downfall of a dumb dentist and his avaricious wife, apparently inspired by a real crime in San Francisco.  I have to say, and maybe I am an avaricious wife, but for the first two thirds of the book I thought she was completely reasonable in refusing to dip into her savings so her husband could fritter it all away on beer and a bigger apartment like he wanted to.  Now later, when she started rolling in gold coins so she could feel the cold money on her naked skin, I conceded that this seemed a little weird.  (But what an excellent, Dynasty-esque image!  Nice break from all the ‘realism.’)  I do not want to spoil the ending for anyone, but all of this avarice winds up leading to crime.

The introduction, written by Kevin Starr, is pretty interesting.  It clarifies that Frank Norris was a rich, artsy kid (died young) who wanted to write a starkly realistic novel about working class people on Polk Street.  He lived two blocks away on a much posher street, which he grandly calls “the avenue” throughout the novel.  This sheds some light on the somewhat condescending fascination he seems to have for regular cable car drivers and saddle makers and bartenders on Polk Street.  I believe the book also exhibits some of that condescension that trustafarians always have for people who “care too much about money,” because it is so non-bohemian to worry about that sort of thing, especially when you will get a fat check from your parents at the end of the month.

In short, this book is good trashy fun.  Much better than that Jackie Collins.  I recommend reading it, then going back and reading the introduction, which is much more informative after reading the book.   The part of the introduction describing his time as a “banjo-playing fraternity man” at Berkeley is priceless.  One time he and his frat brothers rented a giant horse and carriage from Wells Fargo from which to watch the Big Game.  Notwithstanding the fact that I have never seen an actual football game, I am now desperate to recreate this experience with the chief’s great aunt and uncle, a mixed Cal and Stanford couple who have big screaming arguments about the big game every year.

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Shakey’s Loose by Renay Jackson Saturday, Feb 10 2007

I am in love with the back story of these books, at least as I have heard it. Renay Jackson, according to his bio, has been a custodian for the Oakland police department for over 25 years; he is also a former rapper and a “street lit author,” whatever that is. I read somewhere that he started writing these books with his kids while they were doing their homework and still sits down and writes for 30 minutes a night after dinner, just like a kid doing his homework. Before he had a publisher, he and his friends would sell the books on the bus in Oakland.

The books are compulsively-readable, pulpy murder mysteries set among drug dealers in East and West Oakland. They sort of remind me of Elmore Leonard; it is that same sort of thing where there are eight million characters and you are following the stories of the murderers and the victims and the police all at the same time. I love all of the local detail of course. I lived in Oakland for years and I am always reading it like, “Yeah, I know that highway exit! I get stuck in traffic there all the time!” Perhaps this would be boring if I did not have so much love for Oakland.

I have a few beefs with the book, like there are so many characters with similar sounding names that I have trouble keeping track of everybody. Maybe if there were a table of characters at the front of the book like in some of the Great Books I remember reading in elementary school. Also, and maybe I am just a prude, but I could do without the long, weird sex scenes including sentences like “He slammed his battering ram into her all night long.” Again, I suppose that is just a personal preference.

But the books are like I say compulsively readable. What have I learned that I should apply to my own meager efforts? I like his fast-paced action combined with lots of little detail about the characters’ lives so you feel like you really know them. Also, I should go easy on long extremely detailed romantic interludes with lots of analogies to power tools in case any of my many readers have delicate sensibilities like mine. Also, maybe readers love lots of references to Oakland geography. Or maybe that’s just me.

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