Post Category → Books

The only exception is you can maybe plan on going to a bookstore but that’s it

Yesterday was a travel day. Sarah and I have found that it’s better, when you’re traveling, to consider any day when you have a flight as a day when nothing else gets done. That day is just for travel. Don’t try to meet anybody, don’t go see any sights, don’t go eat at any particular restaurants. Just pack and get where you’re going. The temptation is to cram as much activity into a trip as you possibly can, but there is no more sure-fire way to fuck up your itinerary’s hard deadlines than to try to do something immediately before or after a flight.

Plus, we’re both worriers and find the simplicity of having only one-thing-to-do-that-day comforting. Besides, sometimes a relatively simple trip can take up a surprising amount of time.

We left Sarah’s mom’s place at about 10:30 a.m., heading for the airport in Bozeman. We stopped to have lunch and to visit a dry goods store called Murdoch’s (not my idea — this was supposed to be a travel day, but Sarah’s mom needed, swear to god, cat treats). We arrived at the airport at 1:00 p.m. for our 3:00 o’clock flight, made it through security, and then hung out at our terminal. I read The Butcher’s Masquerade and listened to Talking Head’s Fear of Music, which has 11 tracks and came out in 1979.

I don’t mind airports the way a lot of people do. They’re expensive and crowded and the chairs should really be more comfortable considering sitting down is like the only thing everyone DOES at airports, but I enjoy having a moment to relax on an otherwise hectic trip.

I paused while listening to Fear of Music to talk to Sarah about the Talking Heads.

”I’m not trying to be confrontational here or anything, but what do people see in this band? Is it the satire? The comedy? Because I’m listening to their third record and … I don’t like the singing, I don’t like the lyrics, I don’t like the drums, I don’t like the guitar, and the production value isn’t spectacular. The whole first song is nothing but a bunch of white guys doing a we-just-discovered-African-music. The bass is good on a lot of songs, but the bassist is a one-trick pony when it comes to tone.”

Sarah oftentimes thinks I’m looking for an argument when I talk about books or music or movies — it can seem like I’m challenging her to defend a band that she’s not particularly nuts about, when really I’m just trying to voice questions that I’m asking myself. “You don’t have to listen to them,” she said. For her, music isn’t supposed to be a struggle. It’s supposed to be something you enjoy. If you’re not having fun, then why bother? Stop listening to it.

I don’t really have an answer to that question, other than I think it’s important to try things you don’t like. Especially in the realm of art. Art is there to challenge us, after all, and some of my favorite musicians are acts that I didn’t like at first but only came to enjoy after repeated listenings. Maybe I’ll wind up liking the Talking Heads — who knows?

Our flight took off at 3:00 p.m. Our seats were surrounded by stinky, invasive children. We landed at SeaTac at 4:00, having gained an hour in the air. We quickly deplaned and made our way to the light rail system, which brought us north to Lynnwood, where Sarah’s dad picked us up. It was about a 90-minute subway ride. After a quick dinner at the marina, we loaded up the boat and made our way to the island my wife grew up on. A 30-minute boat ride through smoke and choppy waves.

I listened to the audio of The Butcher’s Masquerade as we traveled and made a lot of progress before we finally arrived at our destination at around 8:00 p.m. Just like that, our trip, which mostly consisted of a 2-hour flight, managed to take up nearly 10 hours.

You can see why it’s better not to cram in activities on a travel day.

It is beautiful out here. Dark at night, and very quiet. It’s easy to get lost in your own thoughts.

I dreamed of a purple pillow that screamed at me. It was a large, square throw pillow with a face, and it had been screaming for a while. I went up to it and said, “I’ve had enough of your goddamned screaming, purple pillow. Enjoy being face-down.” Then I put the pillow down on its face and left it there, knowing it didn’t have the ability to right itself.

Everyone’s grandpa got one for Christmas one year and frankly it ruined that song forever

There was a big fire about a mile away from where we are staying. You could see it burning from the front porch. They put it out in fairly short order, but it’s still … unsettling to think about. Looking at a map of wildfires in the area really gives you a better understanding of where all this goddamned smoke is coming from.

Obviously not to scale.

I’m about half-way through The Butcher’s Masquerade. Holy cow is this an angry book. One of the most surprising things about this series is the anger, in my opinion. Carl is just straight-up murdering POWs, if you want to call them that. As bad as that is, he’s killing them while talking shit because he knows their families are watching.

Is it justified? Most people would say so. The aliens Carl is mercilessly slaughtering are the same aliens who destroyed Earth, the same aliens who subjugated the human race and forced everyone into a deadly competition for the entertainment of the rest of the universe. If those bastards don’t deserve to be the target of guerrilla warfare, then who the hell does?

Still, it feels like Carl has crossed a line. Somewhere between “blowing up that monster that’s trying to eat me” and “cracking jokes before curb-stomping some bitch.” It’s a level of violence that borders on “torture porn” — Carl just gave some mantis-lady a case of “enthusiastic double gonorrhea,” which sets a fire on her crotch that can never be put out. It’s horrible.

And I’m 100% with it.

These books are so popular largely because they tap into an anger that so many of us are feeling. I’m not a young man, but it does seem like these books are popular with young men. And, while it isn’t strictly young men who don’t normally read novels who are making this series successful, hitting that demographic has certainly helped. People in America are fucking pissed off, and we can see that same anger in Carl. We root for that anger when we see it.

I did wince, though, when Carl stuck the goose’s head in the garbage disposal.

Boy, did I not enjoy More Songs About Buildings and Food by Talking Heads. The album is from 1978. It has 11 tracks. I listened to it this morning while doing some chores around the house, watering plants, and hanging out by the stream. I tried so hard to find something to latch on to. But there just wasn’t much.

”Take Me to the River” is a legitimately good song. Groovy bass line, cool vibe. David Byrne is doing his best to keep himself in check with no unusual yips or squeaks, which must have been tough for him when the song was recorded. “Turn it down to about a 4, Dave,” his bandmates told him. “You’re at an 8 now. Cut that in half, okay? 50% less. That’s the sweet spot.”

That song, however, is disqualified due to its affiliation with Big-Mouth Billy Bass.

talking heads: 77 & the gate of the feral gods in smoky montana

Sometimes you’re by a campfire and, no matter where you sit, the smoke and ash blow right into your face. You get up and move, but the smoke seems to follow you. You move again. The smoke moves again. You curse and say, “This fucking happens every time I go camping.”

Well, that’s what it’s like in Montana right now.

Spokane, Washington, is apparently burning down (thanks to arson!) and the smoke is just … everywhere. It’s spreading across the northwest like a Lovecraftian haze, turning the horizon into a Japanese landscape painting.

Minus the boat.

If you haven’t seen the effects of these fires, you should check out some of the videos. Entire neighborhoods in Washington’s second biggest city are being reduced to ash.

I was talking to Sarah the other day about why I don’t think I’ve ever given Talking Heads a fair shake.

”David Byrne sings like he’s joking. Like, if I’m singing while I’m doing chores around the house, just faffing about not putting any thought into what I’m saying and just belting out whatever crap comes to mind, that’s what David Byrne sounds like.” I would guess that he really does put thought into his lyrics and vocal affectation, but he often comes across just sounding silly. I think he wants to sound silly.

When I was younger, music was something that I connected to on an almost visceral level. I liked artists who put passion into the way they expressed anger or happiness or excitement or loss. It was borderline offensive to me that other artists didn’t take it seriously.

”He’s up there dancing with a fucking lamp,” I thought. “Who likes this shit?”

I’ve never been able to hear Talking Heads without an accompanying mental eye roll. I figured it wasn’t fair that I disliked them without ever listening to them, though, so I’m going through their discography while I read Dungeon Crawler Carl.

I’m awfully glad that I got back into this series. The Gate of the Feral Gods has been a blast so far. I’ve got a lot of time to read while we’re in Montana, so I’ve made tremendous progress with it — I should finish the book today.

I got book 5 — The Butcher’s Masquerade — at a little bookstore called Country Bookshop in Bozeman, which is a fantastic little place and very well curated. My suitcase didn’t need the extra weight, but we all make our sacrifices.

Dear john we had a lot of good times didn’t we oh boy those were good times anywho I’m seeing someone else

I’m going to take a little break from Dungeon Crawler Carl. I have nothing against it, to be honest. It’s been a great series–it’s just had the unfortunate distinction of being the series I was reading while Dad was getting sicker.

I listen to audiobooks when falling asleep, and for the last several weeks, the soothing sounds of Carl shouting “Goddamnit, Donut!” have been the soundtrack to my snoozes. This has created a bit of an unfair association, and I (well … Sarah and I, actually) realized we should probably listen to something a little more innocuous.

… This reads like a break-up letter to a book series.

Honestly, I just want a change of pace, vibe, scenery, or whatever-you-want-to-call-it. I need to get my head straight, so I’m just going to start with something new.

In essence: “It’s not you; it’s me.”

I’ll probably come back to Carl later. Maybe as a destination-read or something that will help remove the negative association. Hard to be mad at any book you read on a beach, that’s what my ol’ Nana used to say.

(I don’t believe my Nana ever so much as set foot on a beach. At least not without complaining about it.)

Anywho.

For the last few days, Sarah and I have just been listening to The Lord of the Rings as we fall asleep. It’s a book we’ve both read several times, so we can really just start at any point in the story and not miss a beat. It’s safe. It’s also an audiobook I don’t feel the need to finish, and an audiobook I (probably) won’t associate with my dad dying.

Sarah and I also went to Barnes & Noble today and I looked for books off of my list of 1,000 Books to Read Before You Die, which is more challenging than it ought to be. (I know there are a lot of great books out there and shelf space is limited, but we can all agree that bookstores should have at least one copy of The Power & the Glory, right? Right, fellas…?)

I found a slight little thing called The All of It by Jeannette Haien, which I know next-to-nothing about. (The only thing I DO know for certain about the book is that it has a rowboat on the cover.) I’m glad it’ll be my next read because, even if I don’t like it, it’s only around 145 pages.

… and now I’m justifying my rebound novel. I actually called it a “slight little thing!”

Ha! What a world.

She awakens in her aqueous lair and rises through seas lakes and rivers and into the municipal water system where I wait patiently with my pants down

Sarah got me a bidet for my birthday. It’s a little attachment that goes under the back of your toilet normal seat. Not a separate appliance, but just a little one that you add on to your regular toilet. It plugs into the water line like a Super Nintendo only instead of turning to channel 3 the bidet shoots a little stream of water at your B-hole. It feels like a mermaid violently licking your undercarriage and it is a game changer.

Bidets are things that have never really “landed” in America. While the word “bidet” is French (the word means “pony” — it’s a little joke), I’ve always thought of them as an Asian thing. Mostly because that’s where I first encountered and absolutely fell in love with them, but also because of the electric Japanese toilet seat trend that started decades ago and into which bidets were folded.

Sarah and I fell in love with them when we lived in Bali, where our main bathroom had what we called a “butt gun” (not technically a bidet, but the same effect) that sprayed water hard enough to bruise your balls if you didn’t aim it right. It was risky, but I swear my butt crack has never felt fresher.

The bidet we just installed isn’t quite as intense, but it’s still refreshingly firm. Like Poseidon’s handshake!

A lot of Americans will roll their eyes at this, but it goes to show how much people are willing to stick to an old habit even when there’s something better out there. Every person I know who has regularly used a bidet has said they loved it. Several of them have joined the cult of bidet enthusiasts (I’m a proud member!) who go around advocating them strangers both in person and in the blog-o-sphere. I am convinced that not only are they wayyyy more sanitary, but that the majority of Americans would love them if they tried them.

It’s just that once you’ve experienced the feeling of having the shit blown out of your ass by a high-pressure stream of water, you realize that there’s no going back. Conventional toilet paper — even that bougie 4-ply stuff — just doesn’t cut it. All you heathens sticking to your Charmin are missing out.

Time for a reader question!

Humor, definitely. While there are a lot of horrific scenes in the first two books — hello Krasue! — they all work in service to something else. Usually something funny. A lot of times, it’s the descriptions of the mobs that Carl and Donut (his partner/Persian cat) fight, which are “written” by the game-controlling AI in a snarky tone. Think Bill Burr writing the cut scene texts for Skyrim.

Besides, there’s a wealth of horror out there that relies on comedic elements. Most of it, I would argue. Carl definitely has a shared element with the Human Centipede franchise and the whole “gore porn” sub-genre of horror. There’s a perverse humor in asking, “How far can I push this? Just how GROSS can this scene get?” It’s all tongue-in-cheek. A sideshow. A circus.

The whole point of it is to laugh at the bloody, floating prostitute heads with glistening innards dangling down from their neck holes. What else are you supposed to do with characters like that?

Blogging about diseases is boring and sad but I need to remember these things so here we are

I haven’t been reading much. Well, I’m still reading a little, but I’m so preoccupied that in my off time I just veg out and either watch YouTube or TikTok. Still, I’ve gotten through Dungeon Crawler Carl and am currently working through the second book in the series, Carl’s Doomsday Scenario. I’m doing the print version and the audiobook (which is interestingly done).

The series is fine. I like the relative mindlessness of it. Blowing up goblins and punching monsters so hard they explode. There are some unique aspects to the plot structure that are worth examining on a serious level — I feel like the arc of the story is built to be understood from a macroscopic lens; characters will make more sense the more books you get into the story. It’s as if the author planned on writing hundreds of thousands of words and just thought, “We’ll get to it eventually.”

As a writer, I’m used to doing this stuff quickly — I’m borderline minimalist. “Get to it!” that’s my motto. Or, as Vonnegut puts it, “Start as close to the end as possible.” Don’t waste words; your readers’ time is valuable and you should use it well. Reading Carl reminds me how flexible these rules are, because there’s a lot of stuff I don’t get or simply wouldn’t do.

It’s unfathomable to me that we don’t have more information about Carl’s ex-girlfriend yet, even though you know she’s going to make an appearance (or be brought back up somehow.)

I’m also not a fan of giving readers actual numbers for strength and intelligence. This book will give each character a level and stats, all of which are explicitly told to readers. Is this why they’re calling it “LitRPG?” (Horrible, horrible name IMO. And maybe, overall, just a bad idea.)

Increases in ability should be shown through action not spreadsheets. The spreadsheets were only ever created for RPGs like D&D where you couldn’t easily show strength or intelligence through action. In a narrative, though, all we have is time to show how characters act. That’s the whole point of a story.

I will never read a sentence like, “My strength was at 30 so I was confident I could win the fight,” and think, “That’s some good writing!”

I know, I know, not everything needs to be literary. Besides my gripes at the LitRPG genre in general, Dungeon Crawler Carl has been fun so far.

Anywho.

My dad has a feeding tube installed in his stomach and is out of the hospital, but his condition doesn’t seem to be…improving, or at least not improving rapidly. While he’s glad to be home, he really doesn’t have a lot of energy. I don’t know if that’s from the cancer or if it’s from weeks of not being able to swallow due to the tumor in his esophagus (which is growing rapidly), but it isn’t a good sign.

Sarah, my brother, and I went down to visit yesterday. Dad was able to get up and move around, but not much. He can’t swallow anything at all and chews on ice like they have you do in the hospital. His headaches are getting bad. He has a big red bottle of hydrocodone you can inject in his feeding tube.

Radiation treatments start this Thursday and will continue for most of April. Chemo will start after that, depending on how the radiation goes.

A “home run” at this point isn’t a cure; a home run is shrinking the tumor in dad’s throat enough that he can swallow food. Not only will that make his quality of life much better, but being able to get more nutrition will be an added bonus. Dad loves eating and I hate thought of him missing out on food he enjoys in favor of the flavorless goop that goes right into his belly.

Time marches forward.

School continues. The ACTs are tomorrow and I get to proctor.

Sarcastic yay.

Snowless snow

“There’s no way we’ll have a snow day tomorrow,” I believe were my exact words to students yesterday.

We have the day off.

I knew there was snow in the forecast, but it looked like a small amount and our district is notoriously stingy with “snow days” to begin with, so I figured there was a snowstorm’s chance in hell that we’d actually have a snow day.

While I’m not going to complain — it’s always nice to have a break in the middle of the week — I am confused by the decision. It’s noon now and it hasn’t yet snowed a single flake. It’s cold and it’s gray and it’s windy, but “cold, gray, and windy” describes Nebraska 50% of the year.

I’ve started reading a book called “The Atrocity Archives” by Charles Stross. It’s the first book in a series called “The Laundry Files,” which seems to be about a British IT guy who’s employed by a government agency (“The Laundry”) that fights against extra-dimensional Lovecraftian horrors.

Sounds like a hoot!

I picked up “The Atrocity Archives” because I was hankering a little Brian Lumley, who used to write books with covers like this before he died a few years ago:

“Necroscope” is a series about a guy who can talk to dead people and fights against an intense body-horrorish breed of vampire (Wamphyri!) from an alternate universe. There are about 16 books in the Necroscope series, and I was really into them when I was in college.

The Laundry Files should scratch that particular itch, but I know very little about these books. (Which is pretty fun, actually. I feel like I usually know a lot about books I read before I read them, which helps me appreciate the writing but leaves little room for surprises.) I’m excited to see what The Laundry Files is all about.

Perfect fodder for a snowless snow day.

A vice so nice I did it twice

Over the last few years, I’ve gone to great lengths to rid myself of vices. I’ve given up smoking, alcohol, soda, and coffee. I’ve started trying to eat healthier, to drink more water, and to exercise more.

If I’m being honest, it’s been horrible. More than horrible. Boring.

When I lived and taught in Korea (between 2008 and 2019), drinking and smoking were practically required. It’s a pretty big cultural difference — I went out with coworkers much more frequently than you do in the U.S. People drank, smoked, and generally had a rip-roaring good time about once a week. It made you feel cool.

(In Korea I’ve been stumbling around drunk at 2 AM on a weeknight with the principal of the elementary school I worked at. There wasn’t anything strange about it. Everyone thought it was normal. Good even. In contrast, at my current school, we go out to dinner or something about once or twice each year.)

I feel decidedly uncool. In fact, I’m as square as a set of dice.

I’m pretty sure what I’m describing is called “growing up,” but it hasn’t been easy.

I’ve been trying to get myself to take pleasure in small things — the little daily rituals you do without thinking about it. Basically, I’ve been trying to think of myself as a character in a Haruki Murakami novel.

In case you’ve never read any of Murakami’s work, there are very frequently characters who embrace simplicity and routine as if it were their entire identity.

Tengo washed the rice, put it in the cooker, and turned on the switch. He used the time until the rice was ready to make miso soup with wakame seaweed and green onions, grill a sun-dried mackerel, take some tofu out of the refrigerator and flavor it with ginger, grate a chunk of daikon radish, and reheat some leftover boiled vegetables. To go with the rice, he set out some pickled turnip slices and a few pickled plums.

Besides being fantastic about food writing, you can see in this excerpt from 1Q84 that Murakami’s characters have a certain kind of presence (as in present in the moment) that I wish wish wish I possessed. I want to be the sort of person who can not only put together a healthy meal, but also enjoy the process.

I’m not there yet, but I’ve been trying for so long that I’ve started to wonder if it’s even possible.

Like a nandle in the nind

I downloaded a little book called The Trauma of Burnout by Dr. Claire Plumbly the other day, hoping (as I always do) to find more information about why I’m having trouble sleeping. And, hopefully, to find ways to improve the situation.

Am I actually burnt out? I don’t know. Being burnt out is more of a spectrum than it is a binary condition (“syndrome,” technically), so I suppose most people who’ve been teaching for a while are. Both mentally and physically, teaching is a tough gig. If you want to see how tough it is, take a little trip over to r/teaching on Reddit and see the horror stories that get posted there on a daily basis.

Plumbly’s book reads like she’s been following me around taking notes about how my day is going, which should make me upset but actually makes me a little relieved. It’s just nice to have a clearer idea of why I feel so crummy and to have some practical steps I can take to fix the issues.

For example, this morning, one of the first things I did after waking up was splash a bunch of cold water on my face, which apparently has some physiological benefits. Did it feel great? No. But my morning did go a little smoother than usual, so that’s a win.

I’ve never been huge on self-help books, but at this point I’ll take advice from anywhere I can get it.

Ooh ee ooh aah aah ting tang wallah wallah Potter

I’m listening to The Prisoner of Azkaban now, and there’s a part of the Full-Cast Editions from Audible that I’m finding particularly strange: The foley work.

Foley work is what we call the sounds produced for movies, tv, radio, podcasts, etc. It can be footsteps, gunshots, squeaky door hinges, coughs, grunts, barks. Cars passing by on a busy highway. Raindrops hitting a window. In visual media like movies and tv, we are so incredibly used to foley that we barely notice — it would probably be strange if the foley wasn’t there (or wasn’t done properly).

In audio books, though, foley work isn’t usually a part of the process. For years and years, audio books have featured nothing more than a single person speaking. There isn’t usually even any atmosphere or ambience done. It’s expensive, time-consuming, and (I think) would involve feedback from the author.

Audible’s Full-Cast Editions of the Harry Potter series, though, are chock full of foley work.

For the most part I enjoy it — it adds to the story when you can hear spells being cast or footsteps running down a hallway or a crowd of people talking excitedly.

It isn’t always…smooth, though. I noticed it first when I was listening to Chamber of Secrets and I was suddenly pulled out of the story in the scene where the Weasleys rescue Harry by breaking him out of his room with their dad’s flying car. While the narrator describes Harry packing up all his stuff, I noticed that the actor who plays Harry was going a little heavy on the grunting.

The kid’s supposed to be packing up clothes and whatnot, but is grunting like he’s trying to juggle dumbbells. It’s in the background, so it isn’t particularly intense, but it does pull me out of the story (which is the opposite of what foley work ought to do).

Since then, I can’t stop hearing it. Sometimes, characters in scenes will just go “Uh,” or “Oh,” or “Ha!” quietly in the background and I think, “Christ, they’re really enjoying their breakfast, aren’t they?”