Trying to be social...

...sometimes involves reconsidering your TBR list. When recently asked what I was reading, I blithely mentioned To Be A Military Sniper (by Gregory Mast and Hans Halberstadt), Sniper (by Adrian Gilbert) and Sniper: A History of the U.S. Marksman (by Martin Pegler). The person asking me clapped her hands over her ears and went "la la la la la!" to avoid further discussion. And so it was brought to my attention that sometimes research doesn't make the best chit-chat, and I resolved that I should work on that. (But, jeez, it wasn't like I was going on about plague or sucking chest wounds or anything.)

While I'm working, I tend to stay away from crime fiction, so I quickly tore through David Sedaris's When You Are Engulfed in Flames, Naomi Novik's Victory of Eagles, and J. Maarten Troost's The Sex Lives of Cannibals: Adrift in the Equatorial Pacific. It then occurred to me that in another chat about books, it might be hard to discuss Sedaris's morbid and obsessive humor (pet spiders, talking toilets, and lung disease, anyone?) or to explain that Troost's book is not so much about cannibals or sex (well, maybe a bit), but about his years on the island in the Republic of Kiribati (which, while very funny as a clash-of-cultures observation, was also a sad comment on the state of small countries in an industrialized world). And not everyone digs dragons or fantasy or alternative histories (I'm a big fan of Temeraire and like some alternative history, but am allergic to unicorns).

So take your pick of objectionable reading matter; some days, you just can't win for trying.

(And for anyone interested, so far, the books on snipers I've tackled so far are well-written, by folks who know the field, are packed with details that correct popular misconceptions. A chacun son gout.)

Hellboy

When I was in line to see Hellboy II: The Golden Army, I admit, I was uneasy. I so loved the first movie--gorgeous to look at, spooky and scary, funny, almost a perfect balance--that I didn't see how anything to follow could live up to it. But while Hellboy II wasn't perfect (the dialogue wasn't as nuanced as the first, I missed the voice of David Hyde Pierce, and the character of Tom Manning went over the edge to parody), it was so, soooo good. The visuals were just lovely, otherworldly, alien, and yet recognizable. The fight scenes were satisfying; suped up, but not overly wire-y (a pet peeve of mine). The story line was a bit predictable, but with enough twists and genuine emotion to make you not care about that.

Whew.

I'm not given to summer blockbusters, but this summer has a lot of comic book and historical favorites of mine. And after feeling like such a grinch about Indy, it almost blotted out how much I loved Ironman and am looking forward to the new Batman movie.

Thank you, Guillermo. I may just make it until the premier of True Blood and Battlestar Galactica starts up again.

It's that time of year again...

It’s that time of year again:  the dreaded birthday.  Actually, it’s not so bad a thing—no zeroes, no fives, little or no existential angst—and although today will be pretty run of the mill otherwise, there were a few excellent surprises.  Email and cards from friends.  A mad-crazy box of chocolates showed up at the front door; that will be dispatched in a rabid frenzy.  Lunch with the clan Kelner was awesome; they gifted me with a “Taters of the Lost Ark” Mr. Potato Head (above).  It plays the theme from “Raiders” when you push his hat and comes with “Indy smirk mouth.”  In another package, there was a spy kit.  I’m not telling what’s in the spy kit; that would be bad tradecraft.  

Errands, gym, dinner, today; more dinners (and bubbles!) on the weekend.  There may even be time for writing…  It was a good day.

The BR pile: humor, satire, linguistics

This week's reads are a bit off the beaten path for me. I picked up Bennett and Self because I'd learned about the authors from their nominations for the Bollinger Everyman Wodehouse prize for comic writing (and from Julian Gough's hysterical video about pig-napping, in the finest Wodehousian tradition). I learned about Harrison's book on the importance of recording and understanding languages faced with extinction on NPR, and yes, I'll admit it, Stephen Colbert.

Alan Bennett, The Uncommon Reader

What happens when Queen Elizabeth II stumbles into a mobile library and begins to read, widely and deeply, for the first time? Bennett interweaves the progression of a love affair with books and reading that many of us would recognize, but has drastic consequences for one of the busiest and most recognizable public figures in the world. In addition to the social conundrums (it's even harder to talk to your favorite writer if he is struck dumb by your presence), what I enjoyed most about the novella was its use of language: so lovely that you can't help but notice (and yet aren't ever distracted from the story).


K. David Harrison, When Languages Die: The Extinction of the World's Languages and the Erosion of Human Knowledge

Nearly 7,000 languages are spoken in the world today; it is likely that half of them will be extinct within the next century. The rate of language extinction is higher than that for plants and animals. While only 80 languages account for the vast majority of the world's speakers, the loss of any language means not only a loss of cultural identity, but also history, folklore, environmental and zoological information, and even clues to the way the human mind works.
Harrison makes an urgent and compelling argument for importance of preserving languages in which only a handful of native speakers are fluent or partially fluent. When the speakers die, unless steps are taken to record the language in the cultural context in which they are spoken, the equivalent of a library and a museum is lost forever. As an archaeologist, I understand that no one source of data adequately describes a culture; as a writer, it is sobering to imagine the limitations of writing (vs. oral traditions).

Will Self, The Book of Dave

The Book of Dave was not the book nominated for the Wodehouse prize, but the first book by Self I happened across. Dave is a cab driver, filled with the Knowledge that cabbies have of the London streets and human nature, and distraught by what he perceives as the unfairness of custody laws and the perfidiousness of women. As he descends into madness, he transcribes his thoughts onto metal tablets. The tablets survive and are treated as holy scripture, defining a harsh and misogynistic society 500 years later. The violence and the pages of dialogue in Mokney (derived from Cockney slang) reminded me of A Clockwork Orange; the satire on culture and religion cut a little close to the bone for present times. The book was hard to get through (I like dystopian satire as much as the next girl, but found I wanted a few more ray of sunshine in the future story), but I couldn't put it down.

Blog, blog, blog

A couple of quick notes:

Toni Kelner has started blogging. Check out her posts on her upcoming publications, including, ahem, a certain "werewolves at Christmas" anthology.

And Michelle Gagnon is guest blogging for the Femmes Fatales. Check out her take on "The time suck conundrum."

Stay cool!