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St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves

St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves is another mystical, wonderful thing. I found myself reading jaw-open, thinking How is she doing this? Like riding a horse, it took me a story or two before I could wrap my simple mind around Karen Russell’s impressive, jaunty vocabulary. But then I was off, galloping down hills and jumping over puddles, still reading when there was plenty else to do.

Aw hell. I’m slightly embarrassed to admit it here, but after several pages I decided I might be falling in love with the author. The idea only thickened as I contemplated what charming non-generic thing I’d say to her if given the chance at a reading, then what drinks I’d buy her at the bar, then whether I’d be better off taking her to the bowling alley afterward, or more creatively, sneaking into a neighborhood BBQ. You know the drill.

I picked #10 up because of the title, which might be my favorite ever (if so, this one definitely comes in second). All the stories are about children with family problems, and each of them (I think) live near water or aquatic life. All the stories are strange and haunting, enjoyable and hilarious. For instance, in one, some rebellious astronaut-raised children attempt to lure endangered baby turtles from their nest. You might have to dig, and if you dare snooze through a sentence (like I did, again) you’ll be in trouble. I’d put her next to George Saunders and Aimee Bender on my shrine of living authors it’d be foolish to aspire to. Most amazingly, the collection was published when she was 25. I’ll be ecstatic if I’m writing this good at 50.

*Progress update: Last night I got a decent start on #11. I’m reading it with a friend, which seems like a fun way to go. Also, maybe it ensures the probability that I will actually finish it. It’s a long one.. that’s what she said.

Making Time

Wild Ducks Flying Backward

The other (audio)book I “read” on the drive to Miami was Wild Ducks Flying Backward. It was more than a fit companion for traversing the lengthy toll roads stretching down through the Southeast Florida swamplands. Particularly the travel articles, since a few were about Florida. After reactivating my long-forgotten library card, I discovered #9 at the Homewood Library.

After someone else does a little introduction, Tom Robbins apologizes on behalf of his voice, which he think sounds like a mop being wrung by a pimply kid at Arby’s (or something to this effect). If Robbins were a beverage, he’d be both a glass of champagne and an energy drink. This is his latest book from 2005, and although he’d prefer to be remembered more for his fiction, the other stuff is additional evidence that proves he’s the real counterculture poet king. In my mind, at least, I wish he got the same attention as some of the other guys.

A ton of these essays have stayed in my head, including ones about genius waitresses, redheads, America’s relationship with the hamburger, and, towards the end, some musings on what he calls ‘crazy wisdom.’ The pieces vary from country song lyrics to art criticism, and are collected from a span of 40 years. I’d like to include a few quotes, but it would take forever to fast-forward through the CDs and find them.

If anyone reading would like to know more about Robbins’ weird and powerful writing style, they might find it beneficial clicking here.

(*Note: Had to include this author photo. It’s too good not to.)

Literary Wisdom

Here’s a submission of mine, posted at the Apostrophe Abuse blog.

Thanks, Chris!

The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation, Volume 1: The Pox Party

As far as young adult authors go, M.T. Anderson is about as good as they come. I figured this out last year with Feed, and Octavian Nothing Vol. 1 proved this even further. The Revolutionary War-era historical novel couldn’t have been any more different from Feed, which was a sort of sci-fi/satire love story. I’m not sure why it’s considered a young adult novel, apart from that being where M.T.’s market lies. Maybe because the narrator’s a kid. Anyway, I picked it up at the library in audiobook format for my Miami trip. This was after Carrie told me she’d bought it herself, remembering John Green loved it so much.

So young Octavian tells of his memories using the dialect of the era without a hint of blemish. It’s impressive. He is being raised by a team of scientists, and soon realizes why he and his mother are members of the household: they’re test subjects. Since Octavian’s mother was a queen in her own country, he experiences the life of a prince and slave all at once. It’s heavy stuff, perhaps better for something other than a caffeinated road trip. Still, I enjoyed every minute until about halfway through, when my attention span started to wane (probably around the time we passed Tifton, Georgia). This was especially frustrating, since more than anything I wanted to take in every word. Experiencing this again makes me wonder if I’m going into a sort of post-mature adolescence? There’s less acne, thank God. If I called it a Benjamin Button-like reversal of age thing, I’d be lying. I’ve always been this way.

I’d like to give Octavian another go sometime, but we’ll have to see. This was book #8. My thoughts on #9 will have to wait. I’m very tired now.

Let’s Build a Home

The White Stripes are playing Conan’s last Late Night show. But can it be much better than this?:

Airport Boredom

Some recent Google searches that have led to my blog:

• steve martin
• uke’em  
• riding a camel in egypt
• the jerk tonight you belong to me  
• survival tactics in hatchet
• craig ferguson’s son
• “good magazine”
• the descendents 
• go fish uno
• descendents i don’t want to grow up
• elvis burger

I check this from time to time, and it always changes. The one thing that never changes, however, are the people visiting my blog to read about the Descendents and Steve Martin. Which leads me to wonder, should I be posting more about the Descendents and Steve Martin? I like the Descendents and Steve Martin, but what would I say?

How about.. I like the song “Hope,” and sort of like the pop-art design of Steve Martin’s website (which I didn’t know about until now, upon writing this post). That’s all I got at the moment. Or maybe after studying up I could recreate this blog to only offer information that has to do with one of these two subjects? Or, start a new spinoff blog, and call it something like The Gulf Steve/Milo Tribute? That last idea sounds miserable.

As always, feedback is welcome in the Comments section.

How I Became Stupid

If somehow you clicked on this post and expected a personal confession of how the writer of this blog came to lack intelligence, I’m sorry to disappoint. How I Became Stupid is the title of the seventh book (#7) in my project to read at least one book every week in the current year. (*If you think I’m running behind, I’ll have you know on this trip to Miami I’ve almost “read” two additional audiobooks.) (**My review for the Randy Owen autobio (#4) can be found by clicking here.)

I picked this one up for a couple reasons: I saw it on a friend’s bookshelf; the cover itself was entertaining; and most of all, it was short! (Another friend and I decided to take on some Dickens around Valentine’s Day, so I’d like to make life peaceful in the meantime.) Martin Page wrote this novel in French, and then someone translated it into English. They did a good job. I thought the premise was funny: a young Aramaic scholar is unhappy, believing this is because of intelligence and thinking the happier people are the stupid ones. He tries to rid himself of every non-stupid thing in his life. Most of the time this backfires, such as in the first step, where Antoine tries to become an alcoholic. I liked it okay, but kept thinking it could’ve gone further. Also, I would’ve identified with it more if the characters were either more likable or more nasty. Anything but mediocre.

Here’s a passage I really liked, nicely summing up how Antoine feels after finally finding success in stupidity:

Antione went for walks, appreciated the simple delights of walking and seeing, experienced the vibrant pleasure in knowing that his heart was beating and he was breathing. He smelled the morning air in the Parc de Montreuil, with his eyes shut tight to the realities of this world. He watched the robins without ever thinking of their plummeting life expectancy at the hands of pollution. He enjoyed seeing girls in their pretty summer dresses without wondering whether they had any books in their bags. He took the world for what it was and, without delving beneath the surface, allowed himself to make the most of these free pleasures.