Saint Mike

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saint mikeOster, Jerry. Saint Mike. New York: Harper & Row, 1987.

I love it when a book has me scratching my head and asking why in the first chapter. In Saint Mike it actually took the last paragraph at the end of the first chapter before the “huh?” kicked in, but just imagine this: two knights jousting in a field. At the end of the battle one of the knights unscrews his sword to reveal a vial of cocaine. After a good snort he gives it to his jousting mate and tells him they’ll get breakfast afterwards. The kicker is, the scene is neither here nor there in the overall description of the book as described by Nancy Peal in Book Lust, “When Susan Van Meter’s federal narcotics investigator husband is found murdered…she leaves her research position and takes on the task of tracking down and bringing to justice the murderer” (p 6).
I enjoyed every page of Saint Mike. With such a heavy plot (drugs, murder, avenging wife, federal agents) I didn’t expect such playful, witty, sexy language. Granted, there are some really weird scenes (yes, the armor comes back and someone dies by the sword in the most unusual way, but that’s all I’ll say about that). Overall it was an entertaining, fast read.

Favorite scene: I urge every parent of a child on the verge of becoming a teenager to read pages 12-14. Susan is trying to get her daughter up for breakfast, “The sound of drugs and drug paraphernalia and semiautomatic weapons being thrown out the window” (p 13). It’s hysterical.
Favorite line: “Rita tossed her head like a fandango dancer. “It is not just the penis that is flawed; it is the whole organism.”” (p 15).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter called, “Action Heroines” (p 5).

Old Gringo

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Fuentes, Carlos. The Old Gringo. New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1985.

Everything about this story was deceiving. Despite the fact it was written in 1985 it has an old world language and culture to it. The time frame is supposed to take place in 1914 but to read it, it wasn’t full of new language trying to sound old, elderly, or even ancient. Despite the fact it is only 199 pages long it was packed with histories of places and people, cultures and religions. The language was both accessible and challenging. It reminded me of fun house mirrors. Not everything was as it seemed.
Ambrose Bierce is an American writer and soldier traveling to Mexico to die. He is known throughout the story as simply the Old Gringo. Once in Mexico he meets several characters with equally troubling, mysterious stories. Tomas Arroyo is a Villa general who gives the Old Gringo competition when vying for the attention of Harriet Winslow, another American who came to Mexico to teach English. All the characters have a past they can’t forget and a future they can’t escape. The Old Gringo tells the story of these personalities with the same passion used to describe the Mexican landscape. In the end, the Old Gringo does die, but it is worth the read because there is definitely more to the story than that.

Favorite lines: “But the old man wanted to make life difficult for himself” (p 10), and “If her soul was not different from her dreams, she could accept that both were instantaneous. Like a dream, her soul revealed itself in flashes” (p 48).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter, “Mexican Fiction” (p153).

Guilty Feelings

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“I’m guilty just the same.
Sometimes you’re needed badly so please come back again…”
~Duran Duran Hold Back the Rain

The last month has been a weird sort of hell. While the house has been awesome, getting settled hasn’t been all that fun. We are still moving out at the same time as moving in. Still. We are still living out of boxes. Still. Yeah, yeah. Don’t tell me because I’ve heard it before. These Things Take Time. I should be wearing the words as a slogan across my chest. Or tattooed on my forehead. Something. Yeah, yeah. I know the words. It’s not like I haven’t moved (17 times) before. My frustration lies in the lack of time I have to dedicate. It takes time but I have no time to donate.

Last week They were on campus. They are the same They I talked about in my Entitled to Tell You So blog. They stormed the gates again and this time I took it personally. Here’s another yeah yeah moment. I KNOW they weren’t talking about MY job performance. I KNOW they weren’t talking about ME when the listed the library as a concern, as a weakness to the institution. Nothing they announced was new. So, why do I take it so personally? I’ll tell you why. I have been busting my azz to say We Need This- We Need That. My words went nowhere. But, talk is cheap. Words are well, just words. think of all those sayings – put your money where your mouth is, talk is cheap, actions speak louder than words…blahblahblah. I felt like I was screaming into the wind when I should have been learning to harness that wind and fly. DO something.

I have stressed so much about the upcoming, inevitable failings that I have blown off friends and family. I owe my mother a phone call. I owe my nephew an apology. I owe just as much as I woe. My head has been up my azz looking for the sh!t that makes work work. If that makes any sense. Because now that it’s done I feel dumb. I worried for nothing because They didn’t tell me anything new, nothing I didn’t already know.

Now it’s done. I’m done with the rant, too. I got it out. I got over it. Now, it’s time to do something. It’s time to start flying.

Bethlehem Road Murder

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Gur, Batya. Bethlehem Road Murder. New York: Harper Collins, 2004.

I have a confession to make. Bethlehem Road Murder is the last book in a series recommended by Pearl. I should have read this one last. Dead last. Instead I read it first. Oh well.

I read Bethlehem Road Murder at the same time as The Concubine’s Tattoo and immediately I was struck by a huge similarity between the two stories (besides the fact they are from the same chapter in More Book Lust). Both books are centered around the murder of a woman. Both women were strikingly young and beautiful. Both women had experience as fighters (one in the army, one as a samurai). Both women had secret lovers and complicated histories. Both women were in the early stages of pregnancy at the time of death (which always throws a wrench into the question of motive).

Bethlehem Road Murder takes place in Jerusalem in a community locked in the ancient culture of Israeli society. They have their own way of governing; their own way of thinking. In the middle of this community lies a mystery. A beautiful woman is brutally murdered. Chief Superintendent Michael Ohayon must investigate the crime and solve the mystery while keeping within in line with the constraints of the rules of a close-knit community. Political and religion tensions between Jews and Arabs only serve to complicate the case. Of course, no murder mystery would not be complete without a little romantic intrigue and psychological guess work. Gur does not disappoint.

Favorite lines: “Each time he stood over a corpse…he imagined he felt every bone of his body and his skull laughing derisively beneath his flesh” (p 7). “Don’t you know that all real estate agents are crooks?” (p 9). I had to laugh at that one because just having gone through the process of buying a house for the first time my realtor is a saint!

Note: I think this was the first book I have ever read that included a no-nonsense account of most every detail of an autopsy.

BookLust Twist: In More Book Lust in the chapter called, “Crime is a Globetrotter: Israel” (p 58).

Gone Daddy Gone

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Last night was one of those toss and turn nights. Insomnia, my old friend. Back for another round of fun with me. Maybe it was the bug with a million legs crawling across the floor right before bed. Maybe it was the midnight wind that howled. Maybe it was the dream of him. Doesn’t matter which. Sleep was gone.

Okay, so there weren’t a million legs on the bug. More than eight is more than enough legs for me. When it came running out from under the cat I was running for higher ground, screaming like the girl that I am. Kisa killed it with knightly heroics. I still crouched above the toilet while brushing my teeth, afraid to let my toes touch the tiles.
Then, there was the wind I didn’t know was coming. Who ordered this wind? It banged up against the house and made the strange sounds of an unfamilar place that much weirder.
But, the dream was the weirdest of all.

I remember telling him all I wanted to do was tell him this one thing. Just one thing, I kept saying. We got tangled in a wedding procession. Joyous music crashing around us. Noise. Lips moving without sound. Really, all I wanted was a quiet place to tell him this one little thing. He disappeared for awhile and came back wearing excuses, babbling reasons. Really, I didn’t care. I just wanted to say one thing and let him go. It took forever and when, at last at last he was standing quiet before me, I couldn’t get the words out. I couldn’t say that one little thing I wanted to say which was to say No one talks to me the way you do. But, like the bug and the wind, when I woke the words were gone. Gone daddy gone.

Daniel Plainway

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Reid, Van. Daniel Plainway, or, the Holiday Haunting of the Moosepath League. New York: Viking, 2000.

 One of the reasons why I love reading books that take place in Maine is because I can identify with most of the locations. Another reason is that sometimes I get to reconnect to a place I haven’t thought about (or heard about) in years. Such is the case with Veazie, Maine.

How to describe this book? I think I’m a little thrown off because Daniel Plainway is part of a series (of which I didn’t read the first or even second book). It’s like coming into a discussion when it’s two-thirds over. Daniel Plainway is a Maine country lawyer who is trying to solve the mystery of the disappearance of a neighboring family. When a portrait of his neighbor’s daughter is rediscovered, Daniel begins a journey that changes his life. Along the way he meets the members of the Moosepath League and that’s when the fun really begins.
Reid writes with hilarity. One of my favorite scenes is when there is an attempted robbery of the Moosepath League members. The robber, young and inexperienced, fumbles with the gun, slips on the ice and snow, and somehow hands his gun over to a member of the Moosepath League, knocking himself and the others down. The League members do not realize they are being robbed and try to give the man back his gun and offer him money for his troubles – for they think they are responsible for knocking the young man over. “He considered Thump’s card through a blur of tears, realizing that he had just tried to rob three men, and in return they might have saved his life” (p 51).
Another great scene is when the members of the Moosepath League are trying to deliver a letter. There is great confusion as to exactly who the letter should go to. In the end, after they think they has successfully did their duty, they do not know how to leave, “There mission completed (however unpleasantly) the members of the club wondered, in collective silence, if they should be moving on to other things, primarily any other things that would take them some distance from the present scene” (p 92).

Favorite singular lines: “Gerald Pinkney and Daniel Plainway had known each other since their days at Colby, and Daniel had always thought of Gerald as a slightly antagonized bee” (p 16). I just love the imagery of this “slightly antagonized bee.”
“Those quickest to kindness are also quickest to forget when they are kind” (p 94).

BookLust Twist: In Book Lustin the chapter, “Van Reid and the Moosepath League: Too Good To Miss” (p 199).

Survival of the Twits

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I don’t think I care. Nope, can’t say as if I do. For nearly eight years I have been dealing with you and now I think, no – I know I am done. Done. Done. There have been some others I have ceremoniously said goodbye to, but none quite like this. I’ve done the sliding away, glad you haven’t called route. I’ve done the I’ll Make You Mad Enough To Leave Me routine. Been there, done that. This is different. This is me forcing you out and being really glad about it. It’s Survivor meets Lost. Get off the island and stay off. Trust me, you won’t be missed. Or looked for, much less found. This is me, giving you your walking papers.

I can’t stand mimics. Those people who try to flatter you by trying to be you. It’s just not cool. I believe in residual relationships – giving and taking. Adopting, if you will. I don’t care for copycats. Find your own voice. Your own hobby. Your own island. Let me go my own way. Without you.

Here’s the thing. I liked you. I grew fond of what you could be, until you showed me who you really are. Not who you want to be, but who really lives under your skin (and makes mine crawl). Sound the alarm. Scream bloody murder. Cry wolf. Do whatever you need to do – whatever will help you move on from me. I want you to jump ship or else someone will make you walk the plank. That someone might be me.

The Crazy One

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I’ve given up trying to figure out what constitutes sanity. What makes someone more balanced than not. Isn’t it easier to just say everyone is just a little touched these days? In light of recent events I’m certainly feeling a little undone myself. I think I am relating to Matchbox 20 (or is it Twenty?) just a little too well, “I’m not crazy, I’m just a little impaired. I know right now you don’t care.”
Last night it was the grip of insanity and the insatiable urge to talk to someone until my heart bled dry. I did not. I dreamed my conversation away.
Today it was the sight of chicken turning my stomach inside out. Covering my plate to keep my dignity. Monsters in the mall. Voices jamming up my thought process.
This afternoon I had to fight the urge to break every pencil in sight. Break them just to say I could. Laughing like I’m losing it. Maybe it’s true. Maybe I am.

Last night I stared into the darkness trying to write words on the walls of my memory, hoping to remember them come daylight. I did not. Phrases slipped away, faded with the dawn, disappeared in the sunlight. Didn’t matter. Not worth much without what went with them. Reasons.

I thought about the bugs, real and imagined. I thought about the eggs that dared to dance across my plate. The quivering of confusion as a heart lay down to die.

I have gone back to running…again. The love affair that I can’t say no to. I simply cannot refuse you. They (all three) have been modest runs: 2.5mi, 2.54mi, 2.63mi – just long enough for me to curse and carry on like the crazy one that I am. It’s in those 25 minutes that I sort it all out. Get it all out. By the time I am finished with the run I am finished with the rant. I come off the treadmill a little weary and maybe, a little wiser. But, I’m still questioning the sanity.

Dewey

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Myron, Vicki. Dewey: The Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World. New York: Grand Central, 2008.

This is the perfect book for me. One of my bestest, bestest friends reallllly knows me. What could be more perfect than cats and libraries in a book? This was one of the best Challenge diversions I’ve had in a long time. It was also a really nice way to wake up my first morning alone in Hilltop. What could be more luxurious than reading in bed for several hours on a Saturday morning?

Dewey Readmore Books was a kitten discovered in the bottom of a library bookdrop in Spencer, Iowa. Despite being nearly frozen to death he demonstrated such charm and love the library director couldn’t help but fall in love with him. From that day forward he belonged to the Spencer public library. He grew up in the library charming every library employee, every patron everyday. Before long Dewey was receiving attention from people all over the country. Before he (and the librarians) knew it, he was an international success. There is no doubt Vicki Myron loved Dewey. Weaving her own personal story with that of Dewey’s, she pasionately describes how much Dewey came to mean to her.

Probably the hardest part (for me) was to read of Dewey’s death. At 18 years old you would think old age took its course on the kitty. When I read that it was actually cancer, I cried. I could definitely relate to saying goodbye to a feline friend that way. I can relate to not wanting her to suffer, either. When Vicki put Dewey to sleep I was right back in my own vet’s office, holding my cat in the exact same way. It’s funny how pets grow to mean so much to us. Dewey was no exception. He not only grabbed the heart of Vicky Myron, but he captured the world.

Pissed at the Postman

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I’m having a problem with my postal service. I have to wonder if this would have happened in my old town and is just symptomatic of the new place.  Here’s what happened: I have this aunt. She doesn’t ask for much. She’s not one of those Why Haven’t You Written type of women. Laid back and cool. Because of that I always try to remember her birthday. Better yet, becauseof that I always try to get a card to her in time. Last Monday I wrote her a lengthy Happy Birthday Here’s What’s Happening With Me letter. Tuesday I stuck it in my mailbox, raised the little red flag and wished my correspondence bon voyage. It had plenty of time to travel across the country (to California) in time for a Saturday delivery. Or so I hoped. I was a wee bit surprised to see the little red flag still up and my little letter still in the mailbox when I got home from work. But, not as surprised when Wednesday AND Thursday went by and the letter still wasn’t gone.

It’s now Friday. Friday the 13th. Will the letter still be there when I come home tonight? With my luck, probably. If it is I’m using another town’s postal service to send it out. Someplace a little more with it. This new town is terrible. It seems you have to have mail coming in to your mailbox in order for these postal people to take mail out of your mailbox. Really. That’s the way it seems. These postal people blatantly ignore the little red flag. How do I know this? How can I say they  IGNORE the little red flag. Simple. The postal person who delivers mail on my street uses my driveway to turn around. Everyday.

Concubine’s Tattoo

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Rowland, Laura Joh. The Concubine’s Tattoo. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998.

In addition to being a great 17th century Japanese murder mystery The Concubine’s Tattoo is a commentary on honor and relationships. Sano Ichirois the shogun’s investigator who has recently celebrated an arranged marriage. In both his professional and personal life Sano must balance a code of conduct that is morally, politically and, of course, honorably sound. Sano’s latest case (on the night of his wedding no less) is the murder of the shogun’s favorite concubine. Entwined in this murder are complications concerning an heir, long standing cultural differences and rivalries. Rowland displays Sano’s progress on the case through the eyes of Sano’s new wife Reiko, his enemy Chamberlain Yanagisawa, his partner Hirata, and Sano himself as well as many other fascinating characters. One of the best enjoyments of Rowland’s book is her vivid, descriptive use of imagery. The details are so sensuous and alluring. They exquisitely cater to all five senses. Here are two quotes I particularly liked, “Her voice was a husky murmur that insinuated its way into Hirata’s mind like a dark, intoxicating smoke” (p 86), and “The cold air had a lung-saturating dampness” (p 166). 

One other detail I thought I should point out – Rowland is not afraid to describe vivid sex scenes of varying natures. Man on man, woman on woman, husband and wife, illicit seductions, and even rape. The scenes while reminiscent of lusty bodice-rippers are not overly flowery or “heaving.”

BookLust Twist: In More Book Lust in the chapter called, “Crime is a Globetrotter: China” (p 60).

Yours for the Taking

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I should have said Yours for the Keeping because it’s not like we took anything out when we moved in. Things just stayed where they were, left by someone else. We didn’t need to bring our garbage can for the kitchen. There was already one there. We didn’t need to bring soap pumps. The kitchen and bathrooms still had their originals. Lightbulbs. Plant containers. TP holders. It’s like someone fled in the night and I’ve shown up bright and early the next morning. Settling in to the already settled.

I’m reading a new book out of season. It’s called Daniel Plainway or The Holiday Haunting of the Moosepath League by Van Reid. It’s not only out of season (the holiday is Christmas), but it’s also out of order. This is a book to be read later in the Moosepath series. But, all of that is neither here nor there. My point is, I’m reading this book and I came across this passage: “What I need to know,” Gerald was saying, “is there such a thing as a stipulation in a selling agreement that says if something valuable is found after the transfer of the building, it must be turned over to the previous owner?” (Viking, p 17). Do they really want their cheap sunglasses back? How about their Easter basket? And their chopped broccoli in the freezer? These are the things I wonder about. Are they yours for the taking or mine for keeping? Do I really want them?

When the Time Comes

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Span, Paula. When the Time Comes: Families with Aging Parents Share Their Struggles and Solutions. Springboard Press, 2009.

When this book first came in the mail my mother was visiting. She has just celebrated her 60th birthday. Savvy, independent, strong in body and mind I didn’t really think this book applied to her. Needless to say I was surprised when she thought I requested this particular book to review on purpose, because of her. It became an awkward moment because when I scanned the selections for the month I can’t say I specifically chose the book because of her. It is more accurate to say I didn’t pass over the choice because of her. Does that make sense?

At any rate, I found Span’s book When the Time Comes incredibly useful in some respects and (predictably) not so helpful in others. I enjoyed all of the stories about the trials, tribulations and triumphs of caring for elderly parents. It put aging into perspective. Not all parents will age the same way, physically or mentally. Not all parents will welcome the solutions their children have to offer. Not all solutions will work for all types of aging. The variables are endless but Span does a wonderful job trying to tell a different story for each scenario. It was wonderful to have examples to remind the reader, “you are not alone.” I found myself comparing the stories on the page with situations I know in real life and nodding in agreement all the while. On the negative side, the title of this book is misleading. It implies this is a book about aging, and this is not a book for someone who has parents years, possibly decades, away from needing elderly care. By the time my mother deems it necessary to have outside help some of the resources Span lists in her book might not be available to me. Websites disappear, organizations change. While this is definitely a book to prepare children for the aging of their parents, it is not recommended for planning too far in advance. However, should my mother have a stroke or serious accident I could pick up When the Time Comes and start using it immediately.

Too Funny

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I feel hung over. Like I have been drinking for days. My sides hurt from laughing too much. I call it my too funny moment. One Friday night was Rebecca’s show and ice cream with the girls (when we finally got around to getting there). Different conversations happening all at once. Laughter blending like in with the chatter like a symphony. It sounded chaotic, out of tune, in sync, it sounded perfect. I think I’m the only one who finished her ice cream.

A day later and I’m talking to a far and aways near girlfriend. She’s making me laugh with ridiculous stories of body odor out of control, or was it perfume? Either way I can’t stop the tears of hilarity. I match her with one of my own olfactory woes (guys, don’t wear Axe brand anything). Again, I laugh until my sides ache. Too funny.

I like these laughing moments. I don’t get them enough but I need more of them. Probably my best source for laughter (should we really want to torture ourselves with past bizarre incidents and entanglements) is less than a mile away. I like having her close. Her laugh is solid and true. No fake giggles or coy chuckles. There is no other way to describe it other than to say she laughs with her heart. Just the other day as we weaved our way through the aisles of a craft store she recounted the “limo driver gun story” for me. I couldn’t get the details right for my husband a week earlier, “I don’t know – something about a box of cheap condoms, a gun, two gay men, and a limo driver. I can’t remember.”  I had forgotten the tulips. Just to hear her reliving the story made me laugh out loud. Winding through the fake flowers, colored pencils and skeins of yarn I couldn’t help but have that too funny moment.

Color Purple

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Walker, Alice. The Color Purple. New York: Pocket Books, 1982.

To put this on the list is either to admit I never read it before or I don’t remember it. Those are the rules. Supposedly. Only this time it’s different. I chose to reread The Color Purple out of respect…and to get from under the sugar rush I got from other books I’ve read this month. Let’s face it, there is not much sweetness and light in The Color Purple.
Alice Walker has a masterful voice. Just by starting chapters “Dear God” the voice evokes prayer, a quiet kind of desperation. It’s even worse when it’s coming from a child in the beginning. Most people start uttering “dear God” when things turn bad and for Walker’s main character, Celie, it’s always bad. From the very first chapter you learn she is being raped by her own father, tolerating pregnancies and beatings while taking care of her siblings, only to be sold off to a man who does exactly the same. Different man, different children to take care of – same struggles to survive. Yet, Celie is clever, strong and more importantly, resilient. She knows how to make it through the toughest of times. She even learns how to blossom when Shug Avery, her husband’s lover, comes to town. She discovers love, sexuality, and a sense of self.

Favorite lines: “Sometimes he still be looking at Nettie, but I always git in his light” (p 6).
“Like more us then us is ourself” (p 14).
“His little whistle sound like it lost way down in a jar, and the jar in the bottom of the creek” (p 71). Love that imagery!

BookLust Twist: In Book Lust twice: in the very first chapter called, “A…My Name is Alice (p 2), and “African American Fiction: She Say” (p 12).