Image credit to http://elentari.vox.com/

Joe Haldeman’s observantly funny style, as I mentioned in the previous post, remains true in The Accidental Time Machine, despite having been written in 2007, nearly 40 years after The Forever War.  It’s the tale of a graduate student at MIT whose calibration machine, meant only to release a proton at particular intervals, seems to be able to travel through time.  First, it disappears for less than a second, then a slightly longer flash, then a few minutes, a few days, and then, he decides to go with it.  Hijinks ensue.

My favorite parts of the novel were not, however, the hijinks, at least, not on the whole.  It was the views at so many different distopian futures.  In one, our hero Matt Fuller travels to MIT nearly a thousand years in the future, and finds it having reverted to a beat-down, wild-westian religions waste land where MIT is now the Massachusetts Institute of Theosophy, and technology on the whole is considered evil, except when considered in context of God and his greater plan.  Here Matt meets a young woman, a nun of sorts who is herself a graduate assistant (which now means something more akin to servant and is a position that only women are lowly enough to hold).  He takes her farther into the future to escape the religious hell and eventually winds up in New Mexico with a woman called La, a sort of projection who is the spirit, or more, the collective consciousness and sometimes god, of  Los Angeles: LA.  But La’s intentions are not pure (are they ever?) and Matt soon discovers through a series of questionably Christian visions of Jesus (despite that Matt is a non-practicing Jew) that La wants the time machine for herself.

Don’t worry.  It all makes sense.

This is much more a quick read than The Forever War; its simplicity, however, is not in the details but in the viewpoint.  The novel starts (pretty much) in the here and now, so Matt’s thoughts are all very understood by someone else coming from the same mindset: you and I.  There’s very much less back-story and more descriptions.  It’s a lighter read in that the story is shockingly linear and for most of the tale there is one character.  There are no losses stylistically, though: given the less-involved plot, Joe Haldeman uses the space to add little tie-ins to everything.  Off-the-cuff comments and characters come full circle and sometimes even become the point of the thing.  The last few pages are a karmic reprieve like no other, a glorious bow on top of the package you wouldn’t even known was missing if it wasn’t there because the stuff inside the box was so good anyway.

Image credit to http://www.nassaulibrary.org/

I’ve also just finished My Heartbeat by Garret Freymann-Weyr which I first discovered on The Book Project.  I won’t go into it
too much since the book itself is so short, but its the story of a young girl, Ellen, trying to understand the relationship between her brother, Link, and his best friend, James.  Are they gay?  Does it matter?  And what is gay, anyway?  It’s a very sweet, understanding story about family, friends, and the relationships we share with them.  It’s also a pretty accurate, unbiased view of the teenage mind.  Give it a read if you like young adult lit or LGBT literature at all.  It’s short and sweet.

As you may also have noticed, I’ve change the theme.  The skinny column was getting on my nerves.

So? Have you read any good books yet this summer?  Let me know about it in the comments!

Boy was I wrong.

I consumed them.  I wanted to marry them.  I’m not sure how I went my entire sci-fi lovin’ life without hearing of Joe Haldeman.  But I am disgustingly glad I finally have.

Image credit to http://www.ioncinema.com/

I read The Forever War first, it being the oldest between the two books by nearly 40 years.  At its loosest, it’s an allegory for  Vietnam, Haldeman having served there, and the connections are pretty obvious, most distinctly in the horrible preparation of the troops through no fault of their own, the use of mind-altering drugs by the troops (though in Haldeman’s version, this is officially sanctioned, at least for most drugs), and the backwards un-reason for the war in the first place.  But from there, the book takes an entirely original twist on… well… everything.

Fighting an enemy called the Taurans about which little to nothing is actually known (indeed, no one even knows what Taurans look like until their first mano – a – mano combat, many years after the start of the war), the soldiers are flung through space and time by way of collapsars (now an actual, scientific term for super-massive black holes with incredible rates of rotational speed; in the book, something closer to a black hole – which, lest we forget, were not even actually considered legitimate theory in the 1970s, oh how time flies: super-massive black holes are now that which hold every galaxy together and dark matter keeps us spinning  – and which the author simply describes as a collapsed star with a high enough gravity and density to warp time).  This poses no problem for the soldiers until they return to earth, first dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of years in the future while they themselves have aged only months or years, and every time they return, they find their home planet to be in worse, or at least weirder, shape.  In an ironic twist, after about a thousand years, heterosexuality is considered abnormal and unnatural, natural breeding is considered flawed and gross, and straight people have to be ‘cured.’  But, failing that, the heterosexual are looked on as mere abnormalities, curiosities, and no one is worse for wear – not anymore, anyway.  Not only did that make me giggle, Haldeman actually gave a compelling argument for it, and accurately (or as accurately as can be presumed) gave an account of the feelings of those soldiers, straight soldiers, returning from a mostly-heterosexual time period into this gay new world with as little hate as possible.  Indeed, this was a huge change for them, since sex between male and female soldiers was encouraged in the past as a means of stress relief and considered wholly normal if not necessary for the morale of the troops.  In short, the concept of sexual orientation as well as emotions and perceptions of people jumping thousands of years in a few month’s time felt incredibly genuine while still being sensitive toward tough issues, which was even more impressive to me given that the book was written in 1974.  (In the words of the Ninth Doctor, “Relax. He’s a 51st century guy. He’s just a bit more flexible when it comes to dancing.”  Oh Captain Jack.)

That being said, for as forward-thinking as the book is when it comes to people, it’s incredibly backwards when it comes to technology, which clearly is no fault of its own.  It was 1974; personal computers were nearly unheard of, and here these soldiers are, between the years 2000 and 3500, roughly, and one is complaining that you could only fit something like 15,000 pages worth of information on a memory stick the size of your thumb and that’s why battle plans are inaccurate, et al.  Now, of course, it’s only 2010, but we can fit the entire Library of Congress and then some on a flash drive the size of a toenail.  As I said, it’s no flaw of the book’s, but it does make you squint for a moment and think to yourself, “Wait, no.”

I won’t go into the battle technology too much but I have to mention my favorite piece of equipment, the statis field, a sort of forcefield where everything – light, lasers, everything – is canceled out, and the soldiers on both sides are reduced to fighting with weaponry with no internal moving parts: bo staves, swords, bows and arrows.  I can’t say why, but a bunch of people in space suits taking out long-limbed aliens in life support bubbles with arrows totally made this book for me.

Technology, war, emotions aside, this book, and Joe Haldeman’s writing style on the whole, is incredibly funny.  There are parts where you snicker, parts where you giggle, and parts where you laugh so hard you start to cry.  This is true of both The Forever War and The Accidental Time Machine.  It’s not even so much that jokes are made; it’s a truth in advertising sort of humor, a pointing out of obvious inconsistencies, and weird, universal quirks in people, regardless of time or place or species.  The style is also completely comprehensible and enjoyable whether you have trouble with basic math or a degree in physics or, like me, are somewhere in between.

Check back soon for my review of The Accidental Time Machine, A History of Violence, and possibly The Eyre Affair, which despite the fact that all I remember about Charlotte Bronte from my 6th grade report was that her coffin was only 12 inches wide, I am enjoying immensely.  Hopefully it will not take me a month to post like this one did.  Blogger fail.

I am (was) reading two books, and feel nothing for them.

The first one is, as I mentioned in a previous blog post, The Black Death by John Hatcher.  As I mentioned before, it’s very dry, and distant, with very little character development.  Now, it’s a history, mostly, and I really like reading flat-out history texts, so I didn’t think that would bother me terribly.

But here’s the thing. The full title of the novel is The Black Death: A Personal History. There’s a five(ish) page preface which is pretty much just Hatcher ranting about how this isn’t just a flat-out history text, and that he wanted to get a story involved.  That there had been enough histories written.

Mr. John Hatcher, you have failed.  I’m sorry.  I’m over 100 pages in, and the facts are great, and the details of how this one tiny English village related to the rest of the world is just splendid, but everyone knows all of that already.  I am over 100 pages in and I. do. not. care. who. lives. or. dies.  And when there are actual, real characters involved, you sort of have to care.

In sum, it’s not a novel.  It’s a strong history, a weak story, and I couldn’t tell you the first thing about any of the characters involved.  So I quit.

The second book on my I Don’t Give a Damn list is An Arsonist’s Guide to Writer’s Homes in New England by Brock Clarke.

I wanted to like this.  I wanted to like this soooo bad.  The title is clever, and it is not a metaphor.  The author’s name is Brock Clarke.  Brock fucking Clarke.  That’s up there with Chuck Norris.  The narrative is clever, it’s witty, it’s a really great picture of a washed-up guy who made some mistakes and is turning his life around, it’s a really fresh look at the idiosyncrasies of suburbian life.

But I’ve read this book before.  It was called A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore, except Arsonist’s Guide lacks all of the fantasy, and… well, okay, the death thing.  But mostly the fantasy.  And the readability.

It tries way too hard.  It feels like it’s going for the joke.  There is so much crammed into one long, whining paragraph that it’s more funny if you skip half of it.  It wants to feel incidental and hap-hazard and it kind of does but not in the good way.  It just feels sad, and you’re constantly embarrassed for this guy, not in a “NO DON’T GO IN THERE” way or a “YOU DIDN’T JUST SAY THAT” way, but a “OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE YES I’VE HEARD THIS BEFORE NO I PROMISE I GET IT PLEASE STOP” way.

It’s on the nose, and the whole point was to be tongue-in-cheek, which is a completely different part of the human face.

So I quit.

Next time! Brisingr by Christopher Paolini!  Would have done it this  time!  But it really didn’t fit the theme of the post!  Because I like it!

First of all, this book is absolutely brimming with strong female characters.  For all of the pain and torment most of them have suffered, the female protagonists seem to be the strongest, most noble characters one could hope to come across in such a text.  They are not perfect by any means, and often they allow themselves to be weak, but that’s what makes them strong, in the end.

Second of all, the book is inspiring.  The sheer coming together of religions for a common cause, even though (or perhaps more because) it was completely a non-issue to those involved in the rescue of the book, the displays honesty, of respect, and of understanding are really an inspiration.  Even if all of the characters are fictional, the journey the book took, the number of times it had to be saved, is fact.  It really happened.  So whether or not the events went down exactly as Ms. Brooks speculated or not is only half of the story.

Third, it’s simply amazingly well-written. It switches easily, un-jarringly between main character Hanna Heath’s first-person slang-laden Australian internal dialogue to other POVs, sometimes third person, sometimes first.  It doesn’t interrupt the story at all, and actually serves to enhance it.  Point of view is something I’m really sensitive toward in books, so the fact that this didn’t throw me off or even bother me at all is a tribute to its fluidity.  In addition, Hanna’s internal narrative, when situations allow it to be, is absolutely hilarious, drawing away (but not discounting) some of the darkness from more heavy sections before and after her internal monologue.

I have to be honest: I picked up this book because the cover had glitter on it (oh don’t even pretend you’ve never done the same thing) and it ended up being one of my favorite books of 2010 so far.

The book I’m working on right now is John Hatcher’s The Black Death (you know, for lighter, summer reading material).

I’m about a 1/3 of the way in and I want to avoid saying anything which might change in the remaining two-hundred pages (but come on, it’s the goddamn plague; we know how it’s gonna end) but what I have to say is this: this book is so. incredibly. dry.  It’s an historical narrative, but it is very historical and very little narrative.  There is a non-fiction, italicized insert at the beginning of every chapter, and to be honest, with the way the actually prose is written, it feels kind of redundant.  It’s good for explanation, but I feel like if the narrative is this flat, the disclaimers could have some how been worked into the body of the story itself.

That being said, it’s not a bad writing style, it just feels like its doing itself a disservice by having blatantly un-story segments followed by the story, which is written in almost the same voice.  The content is heady and dark enough, pressing enough, to carry the story by itself, but I almost feel like it shouldn’t have to.

Finally, a note on the blog: I failed to mention this in the previous post, but I’ve instituted the use of categories; they can now be found in the sidebar.  So if you’re looking for something specific, you won’t have to fumble through all of my posts about food to get to a particular book review.

Stay tuned: next time I’ll be talking about An Arsonists’ Guide to Writers’ Homes in New England and, if I can just man-up and finish it, the third and final installment in Christopher Paolini’s Inheretance Trilogy, Brisingr.

Hope my Canadian friends had a great Canada Day, and I hope my American friends find an excuse to blow something up later today (they always do…).

As you may have noticed, this site now has a new layout!  Now, I really really like it, and if I use pictures as headers instead of trying to smoosh the text around it with alignment, even using book covers doesn’t look so bad (see: two posts down).  But I’m wondering, is it too narrow?  I’ve always been opposed to really narrow layouts; it kind of makes the reading seem chunky (does that makes sense?).  So let me know: what do you think?  Too narrow?  Is that orange too bright (actually, kiss off about the orange, I like it). Let me know in the comments.

If, alas and alack, the layout doesn’t work, fear not; I collected many more yesterday and can easily switch it out.  I just wanted something a little more summer-y and this was the only one I could find (well, okay, the only one I could find that didn’t FUCK UP MY ENTIRE SITE’S FORMATTING).

Also, I finished People of the Book today, so blog on that probably tomorrow.  Had to put Anansi Boys and History of Violence down for a little while since I have a whole group of books which must return to library land in 14 days which have not yet been read.

All for now; enjoy this gorgeous summer day (if you’re somewhere that it’s gorgeous, and also summer).

              I am remembering, and remembering well.

              When I was a child, I had a piano, and not just any piano: I had an upright Steinway grand.  It had to be a hundred and twenty-five years old, and it was stellar.  I spent time with it every day.  I was small, maybe five or six, hardly more, but I loved that piano, and even then, I knew it was worth more than the emotions I alone imparted upon it; I knew it was worth more than the ridiculous sum of money I thought it was worth (despite it having been free in the Pennysaver from someone who probably just needed it to be gone).  I knew it was important.  It was music, and it was history, and it was love.

              But it was also old, and each time it was played, it sounded worse and worse.  My mother had it looked at to see what, if anything, could be done, but after so much time, it was fragile; the once straight, silver strings within the piano were warped and would have to be replaced, the worn-out hammers refitted.  We were living on food stamps then; we couldn’t afford cable TV or a Nintendo, let alone refitting an antique piano.  So, instead, I watched PBS and I read, and my mother and I would play our hearts out on the old, warped piano, and we didn’t care that our favorite tunes from Jesus Christ Superstar didn’t sound much like the album anymore.  She played and I sang and after a while I played, too, despite the tone-deaf Steinway.

              Then came the time when we, too, had to move, and once more, the piano had a family that needed the instrument to be gone.  So my father (a fine musician himself, but with a more easily-restrung instrument, the guitar), perhaps not wanting to see music be forgotten or left to strangers who, upon moving in, would not know its worth, would not care about its past, or perhaps just wanting to give it to someone who he knew would and could use it, gave the piano to a good friend of his called Jay, who had a son who could learn to play too, in time; a friend who maybe could restore it, or maybe not, but at least it would not be gone or forgotten.

              I went and visited my piano a few times with my father, but I then grew up and got too busy, forgot to visit, and after a while, the memory of my beloved piano faded away until I was old enough to really care to remember it and take care in remembering it: to research it, to find out the monetary cost of such an experienced instrument, and the historical value.  As it turned out, it had earned a lot of both.  I remembered my warped piano then, and I was angry: angry that I had had to give my treasure away; angry that I no longer even possessed a real piano; angry, too, at the less-than-stellar keyboard to which I’d since been demoted, which was born of plastics and would age far worse than my sturdy, cherished Steinway.

              But my anger would burn out; I knew the piano was in good hands, even if those hands had painted on the keys an acrylic rainbow to make the notes, the warped sounds the piano produced, easier to remember. Of those hands, I have a memory.

              Jay’s son and I would play the piano, when I did visit its new home.  Later in the evening, I would sit on the wooden piano bench and my father’s friend would tell me about the universe, about space and time.  He had a pocket watch on a chain.  Jay would take the silver chain and fold it over on itself, and he would explain to me that the universe: its buoyant, bright stars and super-massive black holes; its huge, nebulous gasses where stellar bodies were born and tiny, rocky planets where human bodies were too, folded on itself as well; that time warped space and space warped time, and that space and time were one, together; that time, like space, could be shaped, and he would say all of this with the watch on the end of the chain, the clock hanging limply at the edge of space in a small, silver universe, and it would tick away the time quietly in the background of my impromptu astro-quantum-physics class, never interrupting, but persistent.  Even at six, at seven years old, I came to understand that this was the important part of the lesson.  At the forefront of my brain, I wanted to be a physicist.  At the back, I was aware that time stretched on, fused with space as it was, and even if I missed something that Jay had said on those nights, I am forever glad I did not entirely skip the lecture.

              Last night, I mentioned my piano to a good friend while we talked, and the evening passed.

              This morning, I was told that Jay had passed last night.

              Though I have grown up, and had only visited a few times, I do miss him.

              “To be well-remembered is a gift,” a cherished woman told me this morning.  I believe her, and I believe, in time, I will remember her well.

              I also still believe in physics, and maybe now I believe in a little of the metaphysical.  I believe that time warps space and space warps time and that the two will never be parted.  I believe all of us affect and are affected by space and time, since, in the words of another man from my childhood who is also now gone and missed, “We are star-stuff.”

              I know that being well-remembered does not allow us to interrupt the persistently short time we are given, as the ticking watch at the end of a small, silver, chain-link universe always knew, but I believe that it can be warped into the best shape that our stellar masses and minds can form, if we remember, and remember well, for as another man who affected my youth but was gone long before I could miss him had said, “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”

              I have decided to remember the time, and time, remember well, because that same, stellar woman also told me this morning, “Those that are remembered, are never really gone.”

              ~*~

              Below the cut are (perhaps selfish) dedications and thank yous for the creation and exponential, infinite expansion of my mind and self: things I have wanted to say, things I should have said already, and things I say too much.

For my father: I love you, Dad, and I hope you’re holding up okay today.  I know he was a good friend to you.  Thank you for the guitar, for letting me skip school to play it, and for intentionally making me teach myself.  It’s your fault I never learned any country, then.


For my mother: You deserve more credit than you get, more than I have ever given you. Thanks for the piano.  I should get you another; your playing inspired me to reteach myself.  You underestimate your talent, and I underestimate your utterly bizarre (but completely understandable) love of Muse.  I love you.


For you both, though you have parted ways from each other since the time the piano parted ways from us: Thanks for naming me after a song; for giving me the best tools you could provide; for listening to my young, fumbling fingers on strings and keys, my small voice as it grew into songs and opinions, my naive words as I began to neglect forte and piano in favor of  first-person perspective and faulty parallelism; thank you for the music you wrote in my heart, the blank staff paper you left in my head, the songs and symphonies that I now know I can never give up though I tried my hardest just to write, or even call music a hobby and not a passion, not even for all my writing motifs and metaphors and moods and one seriously failed attempt at being an English major, not even for the stories and essays you’ve bothered (or were forced by me) to read (probably like this blog).  And especially not for the ones you won’t.  Ever.  Read. Ever.


For my brother, too, possibly too young to remember pianos and particle physics during late evenings with older people’s friends (do you?):  You have developed a mature, reasoned, impressive taste in music with nearly no influence from me.  Your mind is more open to the world than I thought and you have a fine ear for details.  Thanks for liking the same brooding, sarcastic, minor-key and majorly strange things I do; it’s good to talk with you again, now as adults.  You probably won’t even read this.  Jerk.

For Chris, whom I love and refuse to be parted from even when you totally don’t get it and think I must be very, very tired (you’re right, I probably am.  I usually am): Thank you for trying to understand my musical rants when you can’t read or play music and sort of hate my taste in it, for listening to me bitch about literature without ever having read what I have, but trying (and often times succeeding) to debate the finer points of second-person narrative, and for not kicking me to the curb when I’m sure there were times you wanted to and I deserved it.  Yes, I know, there were times when you deserved it too. Because I love you, that’s why.  Because I said so.  No, I can’t give you an example.   Just… go away. I’m writing important things on the internet.  …PS: Can you feed the cat? Before he completely chews my foot off?   Yes, I know, he loves me too.  PPS: Stop picking on Meludaria.  And tell Brenda I said hi.  PPPS: Warriors do so suck more than Paladins, and I’ll finally be able prove it to you when I reactivate my accounton July 7, when you start your new job; congratulations! [U r t3h m0a5t l33t g33k 1n m1 <3] Now will you please feed the cat, he’s dying.  Look at him.


For Kristen, the newest and most unlikely member of my ‘family’: I hope you don’t mind me calling you that, but you have given me more hope, inspiration, and laughter since we met only months ago, beneath the leaky and unnecessary virtual storm-shelter of one-hundred-and-forty-characters-per-Tweet than some ‘more-real’ ‘friends’ had and have given me in my entire life.  I am completely unafraid to stand in the thunderstorm of reality with you.  I hope you’re not wearing any metal.  You are truly a stellar (stellar; STEHL-ur {not to be confused with Pittsburgh sport(?) team STIHL-urs, which is not only not a word, but is also nowhere near as stimulating as watching the Penguins kick the Flyers to the curb – and sending their teeth after them in bags – on the first night we ‘met,’ which I’m still calling ‘a sign’, and also, ‘fucking awesome’} [adj], slang [hippies, people who still think it's the 80s]: awe-inspiring, out-of-your-way-going, snog-mongering, home-driving, Lady-Gaga-shot-taking, comfort-food-encouraging, migraine-counseling-and-cosuffering-I’m-sorry-you-feel-like-shit, jukebox-feeding, respect-earning, viciously-intelligent) friend, and a stellar (stellar; STEHL-ur [adj], astronomy [Carl Sagan, Michio Kaku]: anything born of glowing fairy space dust, of which we are all made, – and which is a pretty alright Moby song, considering it’s Moby – together; of or relating to stars or stellar events, which are flaming balls of fabulous, hot, bright, nuclear, and of course, potentially deadly elements, so I guess we are all of that, too, right?) sister.


For Mike:  You let me invade your personal music space, steal your tunes, and force my tunes on you; you’ve bought lunch in Pittsburgh when you have no idea what ‘cole slaw’ means in Pittsburgh (or ‘sandwich,’ apparently), and you’ve taught me more than a thing or two about the illustrious history of the noble bloodsport we sometimes call hockey and never call during, because we’re busy watching hockey, damn it.  I mean, you’re hosting this very site at this very minute (which was your first real mistake).  You’re a god damned enabler, that’s what you are.  Thank you, and prepare the fallout shelter.


For Carl Sagan, who taught me humanity was probably doomed but didn’t have to be if we could just Plan A: get along, or Plan B: not build stupid fucking nuclear weapons that we build because our leaders are insecure about science, their fellow leaders, and the respective sizes of said leaders’ male genitalia (and are too busy wondering what science can do about that to dismantle the nukes; it’s a wonder we ever got ‘em built, actually); what is this, a Matthew Broderick flick?: Thank for being an inspiration, for being a child at heart, for being an adult in mind, and for using small words when I was small, and big words now that I’m big (figuratively, anyway).  You will never be replaced.

For JRR Tolkien: Thank you for the the eucatastrophe (a sudden swelling of good overcoming evil in the darkest hour; the opposite of a catastrophe; something we could all use every now and again; something that never happens on Lost – or does it?!), for the Elves, for the Hobbits, (and Dwarves and Men, I guess…) and for the foresight to write down all of the beautiful places you traveled inside your mind while grading shit term papers, even if you did end up writing them on the backs of shit term papers.  Thank you for love-everlasting even when life is short, and for knowing what really matters in life: Good friends, good food, good drink, and good tobacco/Music, family, stories, and green things that can grow.


And for Jay: I hardly knew you, but I know you believed in seven-year-old girl with a piano: believed that she could not only understand, but appreciate and enjoy emerging quantum theory, even if she wasn’t so hot on math; believed that you could treat her like an adult.  You were right, and I will never stop appreciating that.  Thank you.  May whatever lies before now you be full of the music of the spheres, the stars, and peace in between them.

Already I’ve delved into Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman, one of the very few novels by him which I have not read (due to the fact that I previously thought it was permanently checked out, then found out that no, it just lived in the teen fiction section), and I am finding it very silly. I completely empathise with Fat Charlie, though perhaps not in such a severe way: my dad is that dad who is and will always be cooler than you and when you you throw a party all of your friends from high school show up begrudgingly so when they find out, no, he has a real job now and can’t come drinking on Thursday nights. So there’s that.

I also have started the graphic novel A History of Violence, written by John Wagner and illustrated by Vince Locke and though I’m only about 70 pages in, I expected to me much more grabbed by it than I am being (no I have not seen the movie but I do want to, mostly because I would let Viggo Mortenson do horrible things to me). Nothing really against it so far, I’m just the type who has to get into things early on or else I shove them in a corner and let them starve (this is why I can’t have children). For something that’s reputedly a psychological thriller and also, um, a graphic novel, I thought I would be a lot more into it by now. But we’ll see.

And finally, I’m still reading People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks who won the Pulitzer for her work, March.  It is truly amazing.  It’s a fictional story about the Sarajevo Haggadah, an early Jewish seder book, rare and priceless in that it was very finely made and included illustrations (haggadahs are usually boring and utilitarian, my Gentile friends, and nearly no Jewish books were illustrated because for a very long time that was taboo, much as most Muslims consider images of  the prophet Mohammad, PBUH, to be false idolatry).  It tells how the book was created, where various stains and markings on the book come from, and how the book came to be bound in it’s current form, not to mention how it survived the Bosnian War, rescued many times over by people of all faiths, sometimes for good reasons, sometimes not so much (one story line involves a very alcoholic Vatican priest and a Rabbi with a severe gambling problem).  The main plot, if you will, is about the woman restoring the book in the present day, who reminds me very much of Temperance Brennan, played by Emily Deschanel of Bones fame.  But, for as into this book as I may be, it does get very heavy and dark at times, and I had to put it away for a while because I was absolutely overcome by one of the stories of persecution of the Jews during the Inquisition.  There’s a particularly graphic depiction of a form of torture which involves making a person swallow a very long piece of linen inch by inch and then pulling it back out of them, and I had to take a breather.  That surprised me.  I’m usually very okay with violence and horror and just god-awful gore and nonsense, but that was a bit much.  When I am through, however, this book will probably have a whole blog dedicated to it (as it’s shaping up to already) because it is just so wonderfully crafted.

That’s it for me for now; I’ve gotten about six hours of sleep in the past two days so I’m going to try to catch some shut-eye.  See you all on the morrow.

That wonderfully clever image right there was taken (stolen, whatever) from The Book Project, an amazing book-themed blog by my dear friend @ReinaDeLaIsla (yes, all of my friends live on Twitter). Her whole blog features censored or challenged books, including a lot of dystopian fiction which is one of my favorites. If you enjoy what you see here, I really suggest you go check out her blog. I’m currently scouring it right now for more current reading material.

Didn’t get to make it to the library today, but tomorrow, oooooh, tomorrow. Books.

But yes. Tomorrow I am renewing my library card and planning to take out very few books of my own choosing, since I want to get some suggestions from you! While I’m really not too picky when it comes to genre on the whole, I do like sci-fi, historical fiction, things which will induce nightmares, and things about science (which is different than sci-fi in that I mean non-fiction). But really, the only things I am opposed to (and not even strongly if the rest of the reading is good) are things written in the first person (I’m a freak), modern romance, and fluff.

@mylifeasateacup has suggested the works of Mieville to me, so those will probably be what I snag once I do get my reading privileges invoked.

Please note that my library also has a wide array of graphic novels and magazines (as well as music and movies and a freaking cafe, god I love Carnegie Main) so don’t hesitate if that’s what’s on your mind.

And finally, if you’re from the Pittsburgh area (or even if you’re not), please be aware that our libraries are about to suffer some major blows in funding due to bureaucratic bullshit, so if you have the time, please go to http://www.carnegielibrary.org and do what you can. You don’t even need money. Write a letter. Anything. Please.

Thanks, dudes and dudettes!

Ingredients:

1/2 cup white rice (though I’d imagine any grain or variety of rice would work just fine)

2/3 cup water

1 veggie dog (if you’re a veggie person, go ahead and use whatever hot dog you please)

1 packet Japanese clear soup mix (though, once again, I’d imagine you could use miso mix or even a packet of ramen powder, butthat would seriously up the sodium content.  Additionally, it may make a difference that this mix is one packet to eight ounces of water.  It’s Sushi Chef brand, if we’re getting super technical)

Baby spinach leaves (as many as you like; I used four big’uns)

White mushroom caps (again, as many as you like, and probably whatever mushrooms you prefer. I used three)

1 medium garlic clove, chopped

2 tablespoons shallots, chopped (or onions, though you may want to use more, especially if you’re using white or sweet onions)

A pinch of habanero (if you’re into spicy food like me)

Margarine or butter (or vegetable oil or non-stick spray, it’s not really the flavor that matters here, it’s the fact that garlic is sticky)

Sounds yummy, now what do I do?

In a small to medium sauce pan, melt about a tablespoon of margarine (or butter).  Over a medium-low heat, saute the shallots, garlic, and habanero lightly.  Add as much margarine as it takes to keep the herbs scootin’ across the pan.  As they begin to brown, chop up the mushrooms and put them in.  You may need more non-stick.  Saute them, but only very lightly, since they’re going to continue to be cooked.

Splash in your 2/3 cup of water.  Now, I know most rice only requires as much water as rice, but there’s a lot going on in this pan already, so it might get soaked up.  Let the veggies mix in a bit with the water, then add the rice.  Mix it up, and add the packet of soup mix .  While that cooks, prepare your veggie dog.

Cook the hot dog however you prefer; boil it, fry it, grill it (though that would be a lot of work for one stupid hot dog).  For the record, I put mine in the microwave wrapped in a wet paper towel and nuked it for 45 seconds, because i am truly lazy.  Then, just let it hang out and cool.

Now, de-stem the spinach and chop or tear it up, and put it in with the rice.  Don’t forget to stir occasionally.   Let the spinach cook down just a smidge, and turn the heat down to low.  While that last bit of water is cooking away, get a bowl.  Chop up your cooked veggie into bits (I like mine dime-sized) and put it in the bottom of the bowl.  Then just pour the rice on top and voila! Dinner!  With plenty of food groups!  Enjoy with a spoon or chopstick and milk or Coke or whatever.  I’d imagine this would also be good as a side for something, though perhaps sans hot dog.  It might even be good with fish.

Now, as you figured, pretty much everything in this recipe is optional except for the rice and the soup and the hot dog, hence it being Japanese Polka-Dot Rice (don’t even hafta be vegetarian).  It’s really whatever you like; add carrots, celery, potatoes, whatever, just be mindful of individual cook times.  Pretty much everything in this recipe cooks up fast, but say, potatoes, not so much.

Since I am a giant foodie (read: a huge pig), I’m hoping to include more recipes in here, of my own styling, and maybe even of yours!  If you want to send me a recipe to try and/or post, just email it to me or even leave it in the comments (though if it’s got meat in it I can’t promise I’ll try it, though I may use Chris as a guinea pig).  And, if you’d like to be on my much neglected blogroll, hey, just drop me a line and let me know.  I’d love to get some affiliates, which I’m under the impression are internet friends.  I love friends!

That’s all for now.  I’m off to continue playing Rhapsody: A Musical Adventure on my pink DS, because secretly I’m nine years old.