One of the dumbest things about me is that sometimes I do something I know I won't like, but continue to do it, just to punish myself for being so stupid as to have had the bad idea in the first place. Not huge things; I don't stay with my abuser, or anything After-School Special like that. It's the little things; like ordering double-shot macchiatos when I don't even like coffee, and then forcing myself to drink the entire thing as a reminder not to be so fucking stupid in the future.
I've spent the last week doing one of these things.
See, it all started with that guy in Austria who locked up his daughter for 24 years and fathered seven kids by her. After picking my jaw up off the floor, I proceeded to tell anyone who'd listen about how much it reminded me of that V.C. Andrews book, Flowers in the Attic. The guys all went, "wha?" and all the girls went, "Oh my god, I know EXACTLY what you mean!"
It turns out there's sort of a secret society among girls my age; it seems like almost all of us spent our formative years reading V.C. Andrews books and have very fond memories associated with those books. And that's a truly terrible idea; not just because no 11-year old should be reading about rape and incest (and incestuous rape!), but also because the incestuous rape is poorly written.
Seriously. They are really fucking terribly written books. I sort of forgot how bad they actually are (also, I was a precocious 8 when I read Flowers in the Attic, so I wasn't exactly a literary critic just yet). But because I am stupid, and make mistakes and then persist on seeing them through to the bitter end, I recently purchased a copy of FITA and re-read it.
Oh boy. Ohhhh boy. Suffice it to say, its overly-florid prose, terrible characterization and numerous plot holes left me rolling my eyes and begging, pleading, with ol' Freaky Andrews to just get to the incest already. And when the INCEST is the high point of a book, you know you've got problems.
Another major flaw of mine is that I'm incapable of just letting things go and not worrying about their conclusions. I'm a freak; I have to read/watch the sequels to every book or movie, even when those sequels will surely suck, even when those sequels are not even written by the same author who wrote the original book. Y'all, I've read Scarlett, okay? And watched the miniseries. NUMEROUS TIMES.
So I already know that I'm going to have to follow up on this misadventure in terribly-crafted incest with the rest of the Flowers in the Attic series, which, strangely enough, I can still remember the major plot points of, nearly 20 years after reading them. (Incest, incest, incest, Bart's fine mustache, fire, fire, fire, Chris is in love with Cathy, Cathy does it with lots of boys, her kids are crazy, the end.) But I just don't feel like squandering my time and my reputation at my local Half-Price Books for absolutely no gain. And so, I present to you, A New Blog.
Don't worry; it's not taking the place of this one, or anything. There will still be plenty of my inane ramblings about cheese and revelry right here, and maybe even sometimes less-inane ramblings by my blog cohorts (that's a giant hint, guys). But I'm determined to share with the world (or, like, five people, whatevs) the true horror of V.C.Andrews, through reviews and general wtfery posts about these strange worlds she's crafted, where everyone - EVERYONE - does it with their brother eventually (sometimes their uncle - I remember the Cutlers!). Be afraid. Be VERY afraid. I certainly am.
(But while you're being very afraid, definitely drop by and say hi.)
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
28 April 2008
"i'll make you a tape."
This weekend in between weddings and dinners out with friends, I read Love Is a Mix Tape, the memoir by Rolling Stone's Rob Sheffield. (I also finally got around to reading A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, which was much better than I expected it to be, being surely the second most overrated book in the world, behind Anna Karenina.) The book had been in my To Read pile since it was published last year, but I'd sort of shuffled it to the bottom week after week, because I wasn't yet ready to face a book about people dying both suddenly and young and/or the rise of Hanson. Do you remember when VH1 put out I ♥ the 90s, like in 2001, and it was a miserable failure? It was just too soon, and that's how I felt about this book.
But I'm glad I've read it now, as it was lovingly crafted and deftly written. Sheffield writes of the relationship between he and his wife, Renée, about her early death and how he goes about trying to pick up the pieces, and does so under the banner of fifteen different mix tapes from different periods of his life. It's really warm and moving and you totally fall in love with Renée, so if you, like me, kept shuffling it to the bottom of the pile, I urge you to pick it up and read it.
But that's not really what I want to discuss today, because that would be depressing. Rather, reading about Rob Sheffield's old mixes led me to think about some of mine. I was the queen of the mix tape in my younger days. I think I had a mix tape or cd for everything I did. I had one for the morning ride to my high school - it was a lot of angry grrl music that validated my sense of isolation and self-importance. There was Aly's SuperAwesomeMix mix, which had everything from Garth Brooks to Cowboy Mouth to Aretha Franklin, which was what we played when we needed a self-esteem boost. (All the songs were designed to tell us how SuperAwesome we were, natch.) I had one for showers when I was a freshman in college which was mostly classical - I remember that Tchaikovsky's Pathetique was on there, as well as the Moonlight Sonata. Two bonin' pieces, really, so I don't know why I relegated them to the showers. There was the Sunday Afternoon mix when I was a junior in college - all Etta James and Billie Holiday that produced the desired effect of me lounging around in my pjs and drinking whiskey while finishing up human ev coursework. I remember one from when I was eight that was just 15 different Michael Jackson songs, taped off the radio, called "The Boogie Mix." My parents had one from a party they had - Dance Mix 2 (I never could figure out where Dance Mix 1 had absconded to) - which I stole from the tape deck after the party and played on my Walkman for three months straight. I am not even kidding when I say that it had a track from Alabama on it. I remember one tape Mandy made for one of our many rambles somewhere that had Dr Demento, KMFDM and Paul Westerberg on it, which is so Mandy that if there was a course called Mandy 101, that tape would be in the list of required materials. And then, of course, Matt's Spring Break '99 (2002) mixes 1 and 2, which provided the perfect soundtrack for our group's drunken tour of Austin's scenic highways. (Don't worry, we had a DD, obviously.) That featured both Tiny Tim *and* Journey, which is how you know it's a good mix.
Over the years, I've made tons of mixes (tape, cd, and iPod playlist form) for friends, boyfriends, strangers on the street. I consider them to be the perfect 90-minute introduction to Your New Friend Erin. I mean, what about me can't be summed up by the simple fact that I love, without shame, Paula Abdul, Kanye and french music? Nothing; there is nothing more to add to the wonder and glory that is me - I adore the pop culture of my childhood, I harbor affection for self-involved whiners only if they can make me dance and I like immersing myself in languages which I cannot speak. et voila, you have Erin.
So my question for you guys today is two-fold: One) what's your most memorable mix? Did you make it or was it given to you? Did it have a purpose beyond being, was it for a specific event, etc? and Two) Make me a mix about your day! I don't mean that you have to ACTUALLY make one (although I will of course accept one), but tell me what would be on it, and why. If I had to make a mix today, it'd be full of music to bop along to, like Mika and the Jackson 5 and Chuck Berry , because I've had a busy day and I don't drink caffeine, so something has to keep me on my toes. What would be in yours?
In other news, today is gingerbiscuit's birthday!! Happy birthday, Anne! I wish I were there to sit on your couch and watch Buffy and talk about how I want to marry your brother.
But I'm glad I've read it now, as it was lovingly crafted and deftly written. Sheffield writes of the relationship between he and his wife, Renée, about her early death and how he goes about trying to pick up the pieces, and does so under the banner of fifteen different mix tapes from different periods of his life. It's really warm and moving and you totally fall in love with Renée, so if you, like me, kept shuffling it to the bottom of the pile, I urge you to pick it up and read it.
But that's not really what I want to discuss today, because that would be depressing. Rather, reading about Rob Sheffield's old mixes led me to think about some of mine. I was the queen of the mix tape in my younger days. I think I had a mix tape or cd for everything I did. I had one for the morning ride to my high school - it was a lot of angry grrl music that validated my sense of isolation and self-importance. There was Aly's SuperAwesomeMix mix, which had everything from Garth Brooks to Cowboy Mouth to Aretha Franklin, which was what we played when we needed a self-esteem boost. (All the songs were designed to tell us how SuperAwesome we were, natch.) I had one for showers when I was a freshman in college which was mostly classical - I remember that Tchaikovsky's Pathetique was on there, as well as the Moonlight Sonata. Two bonin' pieces, really, so I don't know why I relegated them to the showers. There was the Sunday Afternoon mix when I was a junior in college - all Etta James and Billie Holiday that produced the desired effect of me lounging around in my pjs and drinking whiskey while finishing up human ev coursework. I remember one from when I was eight that was just 15 different Michael Jackson songs, taped off the radio, called "The Boogie Mix." My parents had one from a party they had - Dance Mix 2 (I never could figure out where Dance Mix 1 had absconded to) - which I stole from the tape deck after the party and played on my Walkman for three months straight. I am not even kidding when I say that it had a track from Alabama on it. I remember one tape Mandy made for one of our many rambles somewhere that had Dr Demento, KMFDM and Paul Westerberg on it, which is so Mandy that if there was a course called Mandy 101, that tape would be in the list of required materials. And then, of course, Matt's Spring Break '99 (2002) mixes 1 and 2, which provided the perfect soundtrack for our group's drunken tour of Austin's scenic highways. (Don't worry, we had a DD, obviously.) That featured both Tiny Tim *and* Journey, which is how you know it's a good mix.
Over the years, I've made tons of mixes (tape, cd, and iPod playlist form) for friends, boyfriends, strangers on the street. I consider them to be the perfect 90-minute introduction to Your New Friend Erin. I mean, what about me can't be summed up by the simple fact that I love, without shame, Paula Abdul, Kanye and french music? Nothing; there is nothing more to add to the wonder and glory that is me - I adore the pop culture of my childhood, I harbor affection for self-involved whiners only if they can make me dance and I like immersing myself in languages which I cannot speak. et voila, you have Erin.
So my question for you guys today is two-fold: One) what's your most memorable mix? Did you make it or was it given to you? Did it have a purpose beyond being, was it for a specific event, etc? and Two) Make me a mix about your day! I don't mean that you have to ACTUALLY make one (although I will of course accept one), but tell me what would be on it, and why. If I had to make a mix today, it'd be full of music to bop along to, like Mika and the Jackson 5 and Chuck Berry , because I've had a busy day and I don't drink caffeine, so something has to keep me on my toes. What would be in yours?
In other news, today is gingerbiscuit's birthday!! Happy birthday, Anne! I wish I were there to sit on your couch and watch Buffy and talk about how I want to marry your brother.
16 March 2008
On this season of ER, there is a plotline about one of the doctor's college-aged son going crazy. That plotline really kicked into gear when the son turned up at County General. He'd driven cross country to tell his dad about a book, The Road by Cormac McCarthy. On the show, this was a sign of an early psychotic break. For me, it kinda made sense.
The Road is the best book that I have read in a long time. It's beautifully written in sparse, powerful prose with not one word out of place or unconsidered. There are some issues with the plot, but it's generally covered by the fable like nature of the story. However, I give you this recommendation with a health warning. This book has f'ed me up. It's the unrelentingly bleak story of a man and his son walking across post-apocalyptic America on the slimmest hopes, while trying to evade the rest of the survivors, who mostly want to eat them. It's grey, bleak with occasional flashes of the most shocking images- and the even more occasional flashes of humanity in the relationship and love between the man and the boy. A week and a half after finishing the book, I'll suddenly remember something from the novel, and then just despair at the pointlessness of it all for a short while.
At the moment I'm reading What is the What? by Dave Eggers, the fictionalised autobiography of one of the Lost Boys of Sudan. Coming after The Road, it almost counts as a light read, even with descriptions of the horrors faced by an eight year old caught up in a civil war. It is disappointing me- I love A heartbreaking work of staggering genius, and this is not striking the same stylistic high notes, or the same ability to portray tragedy.
Next book to be read is the lead singer of Franz Ferdinand's record of a year of food on the road. Fluff, happiness, food and skinny indie boys-phew. Unless something very dramatic happens during their world tour this should be just the cleansing sorbet of a book that I need at the moment.
The Road is the best book that I have read in a long time. It's beautifully written in sparse, powerful prose with not one word out of place or unconsidered. There are some issues with the plot, but it's generally covered by the fable like nature of the story. However, I give you this recommendation with a health warning. This book has f'ed me up. It's the unrelentingly bleak story of a man and his son walking across post-apocalyptic America on the slimmest hopes, while trying to evade the rest of the survivors, who mostly want to eat them. It's grey, bleak with occasional flashes of the most shocking images- and the even more occasional flashes of humanity in the relationship and love between the man and the boy. A week and a half after finishing the book, I'll suddenly remember something from the novel, and then just despair at the pointlessness of it all for a short while.
At the moment I'm reading What is the What? by Dave Eggers, the fictionalised autobiography of one of the Lost Boys of Sudan. Coming after The Road, it almost counts as a light read, even with descriptions of the horrors faced by an eight year old caught up in a civil war. It is disappointing me- I love A heartbreaking work of staggering genius, and this is not striking the same stylistic high notes, or the same ability to portray tragedy.
Next book to be read is the lead singer of Franz Ferdinand's record of a year of food on the road. Fluff, happiness, food and skinny indie boys-phew. Unless something very dramatic happens during their world tour this should be just the cleansing sorbet of a book that I need at the moment.
26 February 2008
"a curse upon her if she stay"
So something you may not know about me is that I tend to start things and then abandon them for months at a time. It happens a lot; I still have boyfriends from high school who are waiting for me to call them after I get home from dance practice. Okay, that's an exaggeration, obviously. Everyone knows I didn't have any boyfriends in high school.
At any rate, I apologize for my absence from the blogosphere (that's such a dumb word. Like I don't even think it makes sense in a scientific way. Where is the blogosphere located? At what distance from the earth? Will you be burned on your journey through defamer or Perez? Probably.) and can only offer for my excuse that I have been very busy buying a new car and being screwed over by the IRS. Also, tv.
One of the many reasons I've been kept busy is the fact that the third book in the Gemma Doyle trilogy has finally been released. So in anticipation of that event, I reread the first two books and am now happily ensconced in the last one, dreading the conclusion and hoping against hope that if the book does feature an epilogue, it does not involve Gemma's 2.5 children boarding a train for Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Yeah, I'm still not over that.
But perhaps I should back up and explain. Here is a true fact about yours truly: I love YA novels. Love them. People are usually either shocked or disdainful when I tell them this, which is dumb, because hello, we were all young adults at one time. Also, sometimes YA books talk about sex.
The Gemma Doyle trilogy is written by Libba Bray and is about a young teenage girl called Gemma (natch) who struggles to make her way in a repressive Victorian society whilst all the while grappling with a strange and exotic power that has been bestowed upon her. Joining her in her quests to discover the secrets of a magical dreamworld (while also learning how to properly serve tea) are her finishing school friends: the charming and damaged Felicity, beautiful and impestuous Pippa and scholarship student Ann, the emo self-harmer. (Whatever, I sort of hate Ann sometimes. Okay, you're poor and you'll have to be a governess to your bratty cousins! That's no reason to break out the sewing scissors, Maggie Gyllenhaal.) And, most deliciously, Kartik, the young Indian boy with whom Gemma would secretly like to have lots of sex and babies. So would I, Gemma! So would I.
The first book, A Great and Terrible Beauty sees Gemma struggling with her mother's death and a subsequent move to England from her childhood home of Bombay. She and her friends learn about the dark past of their finishing school, a secret group of powerful women called The Order, and the beauty of a place called the realms, where all their secret hopes can come true. Who controls the magic in the realms? Who are Mary and Sarah? And why won't Gemma just do it with Kartik already?
The second book in the trilogy is Rebel Angels and it picks up shortly after the first book ends. The girls have all changed: Gemma is experiencing frightening visions, Ann is struggling to invent a place for herself in British society, Felicity's secrets are revealed and poor Pippa is not at all what she seems. Gemma meets and is courted by the well-to-do Simon Middleton even as she fights her feelings for Kartik, and struggles to find a way to save her father from his opium addiction. Meanwhile, she struggles to find and destroy the villainous Circe and avoid the treachery of both the Order and their protectors, the Rakshana. And she still doesn't do it with Kartik, because she can't hear me screaming at her through the page.
The series ends with the most recent book, TheSweet Far Thing and I'm deep in the middle of it. No one is quite what they seem and poor Gemma has more enemies than ever. AND SHE STILL HASN'T GOTTEN IT ON WITH KARTIK. But they're getting closer. :)
Recommended for: fantasy lovers, girl power lovers and Jane Austen lovers. But hands off Kartik. I saw him first.
At any rate, I apologize for my absence from the blogosphere (that's such a dumb word. Like I don't even think it makes sense in a scientific way. Where is the blogosphere located? At what distance from the earth? Will you be burned on your journey through defamer or Perez? Probably.) and can only offer for my excuse that I have been very busy buying a new car and being screwed over by the IRS. Also, tv.
One of the many reasons I've been kept busy is the fact that the third book in the Gemma Doyle trilogy has finally been released. So in anticipation of that event, I reread the first two books and am now happily ensconced in the last one, dreading the conclusion and hoping against hope that if the book does feature an epilogue, it does not involve Gemma's 2.5 children boarding a train for Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Yeah, I'm still not over that.
But perhaps I should back up and explain. Here is a true fact about yours truly: I love YA novels. Love them. People are usually either shocked or disdainful when I tell them this, which is dumb, because hello, we were all young adults at one time. Also, sometimes YA books talk about sex.
The Gemma Doyle trilogy is written by Libba Bray and is about a young teenage girl called Gemma (natch) who struggles to make her way in a repressive Victorian society whilst all the while grappling with a strange and exotic power that has been bestowed upon her. Joining her in her quests to discover the secrets of a magical dreamworld (while also learning how to properly serve tea) are her finishing school friends: the charming and damaged Felicity, beautiful and impestuous Pippa and scholarship student Ann, the emo self-harmer. (Whatever, I sort of hate Ann sometimes. Okay, you're poor and you'll have to be a governess to your bratty cousins! That's no reason to break out the sewing scissors, Maggie Gyllenhaal.) And, most deliciously, Kartik, the young Indian boy with whom Gemma would secretly like to have lots of sex and babies. So would I, Gemma! So would I.
The first book, A Great and Terrible Beauty sees Gemma struggling with her mother's death and a subsequent move to England from her childhood home of Bombay. She and her friends learn about the dark past of their finishing school, a secret group of powerful women called The Order, and the beauty of a place called the realms, where all their secret hopes can come true. Who controls the magic in the realms? Who are Mary and Sarah? And why won't Gemma just do it with Kartik already?
The second book in the trilogy is Rebel Angels and it picks up shortly after the first book ends. The girls have all changed: Gemma is experiencing frightening visions, Ann is struggling to invent a place for herself in British society, Felicity's secrets are revealed and poor Pippa is not at all what she seems. Gemma meets and is courted by the well-to-do Simon Middleton even as she fights her feelings for Kartik, and struggles to find a way to save her father from his opium addiction. Meanwhile, she struggles to find and destroy the villainous Circe and avoid the treachery of both the Order and their protectors, the Rakshana. And she still doesn't do it with Kartik, because she can't hear me screaming at her through the page.
The series ends with the most recent book, TheSweet Far Thing and I'm deep in the middle of it. No one is quite what they seem and poor Gemma has more enemies than ever. AND SHE STILL HASN'T GOTTEN IT ON WITH KARTIK. But they're getting closer. :)
Recommended for: fantasy lovers, girl power lovers and Jane Austen lovers. But hands off Kartik. I saw him first.
14 November 2007
"This book had better end with Anne Boleyn getting beheaded, because she is a fucking bitch."
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