Leonard Michaels's “The Men's Club” is the story of a handful of men and the lives they've fucked around in. In the early days of the women's clubs emerging a group of men decide that it would be nice if they had a men's club. What would they do? Guy things? Drink, fight, talk about sex?
Well sort of, but not entirely. They soon discover that what they like to do most is talk. They do talk about their sexual endeavours, but now how you would expect. They talk about them to share their experiences, to connect with one another. It just so happens that what they have in common is their inability to understand women and their inability to remain loyal.
As the night progresses they get more and more intoxicated and they reach a point where one has to talk, where one is compelled to share and connect, to reach out and have someone accept their stories, their experiences. They make rude comments about each other's stories but they always have the respect to hear each other out and then respond in a somewhat meaningful manner.
Can this simply be a story about talking and nothing more? Again, sort of. The men begin to show their feminine sides as they engage in actual discussion and sharing, something traditionally atypical of males. The story reaches a point though where they fall back into being men and they trash the house and eat all the food that the man's wife had saved for the women's club meeting the following night. Then the wife comes home and we are reminded that life has its consequences.
This book is a must read for anyone who wants either a sociological stroke of insight or an entertaining read of would-be men who can't quite make it to mature male status. Stories again prove to be ever important here and hopefully more people will one day be willing to share theirs. As long as its not more Oprah fans I'm happy.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Hard Case Crime, Hard Ass Dame
Nothing makes you feel better on a sunny day when you're couped up inside avoiding the terrible heat of 18 degrees C than a good old hard-boiled detective work. Hard Case Crimes releases some pretty kick ass stuff in this area.
Max Allan Collins, whom you may know from comic books or as author of Road to Perdition, has a wonderful little novel based on his graphic novel character Michael Tree, its a chick by the way. Deadly Beloved is a hard-ass story about a hard-ass broad, or I guess dame, who uses her clever intellect and wit to solve crimes.
The crime? A murdered husband and a murdered whore. The guilty party? The wife. Open and closed case? We find that it is anything but as Ms. Tree, not Mrs. Tree, investigates something far seedier and far more intense than a simple dead husband and hooker.
Max Collins's language kicks you in the teeth and you turn every page laughing and asking for more. Some books can be really entertaining and this is one such book. When you pick it up you never want to put it down and when you reach the end you can't wait for the next one to come out.
Ms. Tree does everything from kill her own husband's murderer at point blank range, to kicking hilly-billy and security-guard ass, to sleeping around whenever she wants to, to solving one of the most complex cold case files. No case is ever too convenient for our heroine and don't let her hear you say anything bad about her, she is as likely to kill you as she is to court you. And the odds are pretty high.
Max Allan Collins, whom you may know from comic books or as author of Road to Perdition, has a wonderful little novel based on his graphic novel character Michael Tree, its a chick by the way. Deadly Beloved is a hard-ass story about a hard-ass broad, or I guess dame, who uses her clever intellect and wit to solve crimes.
The crime? A murdered husband and a murdered whore. The guilty party? The wife. Open and closed case? We find that it is anything but as Ms. Tree, not Mrs. Tree, investigates something far seedier and far more intense than a simple dead husband and hooker.
Max Collins's language kicks you in the teeth and you turn every page laughing and asking for more. Some books can be really entertaining and this is one such book. When you pick it up you never want to put it down and when you reach the end you can't wait for the next one to come out.
Ms. Tree does everything from kill her own husband's murderer at point blank range, to kicking hilly-billy and security-guard ass, to sleeping around whenever she wants to, to solving one of the most complex cold case files. No case is ever too convenient for our heroine and don't let her hear you say anything bad about her, she is as likely to kill you as she is to court you. And the odds are pretty high.
There's Something Wrong With America? You're Kidding...
Fury by Salman Rushdie is perhaps one of the longest rants I have ever encountered. The book is about as American as you can get. It was written for Americans about Americans and shows them exactly how fucked up they really are.
Everybody knows when something isn't right, dogs can sense things, rats leap off of ships, and Salman Rushdie's mind shits through his fingertips and nothing more poetic could come of hating America. I don't know if the man Salman Rushdie hates America, in all likelihood he loves it because it allowed him to write this book, but I sometimes hate them. Not all the time. Who are we kidding, I'm a fairly educated person, most days.
Fury is an attempt to hold a mirror up to one of the dumbest nations in the history of civilization because that is what great art does. If the nation is so dumb then why bother even showing them a mirror? All they end up doing is praising themselves for having a book written about themselves.
You know why you show them the mirror? Because it is a catalog of their utter inability or unwillingness to critically think about themselves, and to a large extent, to think period.
When one reads Fury one cannot help but feel like Rushdie is both jerking you off exactly how you like it and placing a Cleveland Steamer into your mouth at the same time, all while being on video camera. Rushdie bullies us into liking him but in the end what's not to like?
A book about a doll-maker gone mad and his oozing hatred for America, sounds like something worth reading any day. And keep in mind, nobody can write that hatred as well as Rushdie has written. Which is a shame, to think that such talent has gone to waste on something so paltry as the American conscience...or lack thereof.
Everybody knows when something isn't right, dogs can sense things, rats leap off of ships, and Salman Rushdie's mind shits through his fingertips and nothing more poetic could come of hating America. I don't know if the man Salman Rushdie hates America, in all likelihood he loves it because it allowed him to write this book, but I sometimes hate them. Not all the time. Who are we kidding, I'm a fairly educated person, most days.
Fury is an attempt to hold a mirror up to one of the dumbest nations in the history of civilization because that is what great art does. If the nation is so dumb then why bother even showing them a mirror? All they end up doing is praising themselves for having a book written about themselves.
You know why you show them the mirror? Because it is a catalog of their utter inability or unwillingness to critically think about themselves, and to a large extent, to think period.
When one reads Fury one cannot help but feel like Rushdie is both jerking you off exactly how you like it and placing a Cleveland Steamer into your mouth at the same time, all while being on video camera. Rushdie bullies us into liking him but in the end what's not to like?
A book about a doll-maker gone mad and his oozing hatred for America, sounds like something worth reading any day. And keep in mind, nobody can write that hatred as well as Rushdie has written. Which is a shame, to think that such talent has gone to waste on something so paltry as the American conscience...or lack thereof.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
A Man and A Dog, or, I really like homeless people and think that I can save their souls through jesus
This book was an interesting read. It is short and not to the point. It reads like someone who appreciates Herman Hesse wrote it. The dog in the story talks and he's pretty clever I suppose. The homeless man is rather annoying. The book is also dedicated to the homeless which tells me that Mr. Duane Hewitt of Toronto, author of this book, has a fairly well romanticized view of the homeless.
This reminds me of a poem that tells us not to turn homeless people from our door for they may be angels. Well, I for one say that if an angel shows up haggard and woe-begone and self-loathsome and tries to trick me out of heaven, I don't want to be around the kind of people who are in that heaven.
It is hard to tell which character of this story is a foil for the other. The man is a loser, plain and simple, and he's so busy being caught up in his own little world of sorrow that he doesn't listen to what the dog has to say. The dog, on the other hand, shows up and speaks in oracle-ish ambiguity. All in all we have two characters who suck. I want to like the dog so much because at times he is witty and at times he is honest and what he says makes sense, but the dog seems to be leading me to the conclusion that what the world needs now is christianity.
As subtle as the dog is, his character seems like nothing more than christian propaganda, and not the good kind nor the entertaining kind, rather, it is the naive and unknowing kind. Perhaps my pallet is a tad bit sensitive but it still knowns bitter and disgusting when its crammed down my throat.
I enjoyed this book and will enjoy again in the future. Its just that my first reaction to it, which will most likely be different from my second reaction and third and so forth, is that I don't need to pay 12.95 CAD for something I can get for free at the cost of my self-respect and soul at the local church.
The dog likes that the people who are helping are other-oriented but he doesn't point out that they feel better about themselves for doing these things, the dog praises their motivations based on a surface observation, which makes him no more intelligent than a three year-old, which explains the cryptic speech. But, if the good is being done do we need to bother with motivations?
This reminds me of a poem that tells us not to turn homeless people from our door for they may be angels. Well, I for one say that if an angel shows up haggard and woe-begone and self-loathsome and tries to trick me out of heaven, I don't want to be around the kind of people who are in that heaven.
It is hard to tell which character of this story is a foil for the other. The man is a loser, plain and simple, and he's so busy being caught up in his own little world of sorrow that he doesn't listen to what the dog has to say. The dog, on the other hand, shows up and speaks in oracle-ish ambiguity. All in all we have two characters who suck. I want to like the dog so much because at times he is witty and at times he is honest and what he says makes sense, but the dog seems to be leading me to the conclusion that what the world needs now is christianity.
As subtle as the dog is, his character seems like nothing more than christian propaganda, and not the good kind nor the entertaining kind, rather, it is the naive and unknowing kind. Perhaps my pallet is a tad bit sensitive but it still knowns bitter and disgusting when its crammed down my throat.
I enjoyed this book and will enjoy again in the future. Its just that my first reaction to it, which will most likely be different from my second reaction and third and so forth, is that I don't need to pay 12.95 CAD for something I can get for free at the cost of my self-respect and soul at the local church.
The dog likes that the people who are helping are other-oriented but he doesn't point out that they feel better about themselves for doing these things, the dog praises their motivations based on a surface observation, which makes him no more intelligent than a three year-old, which explains the cryptic speech. But, if the good is being done do we need to bother with motivations?
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Faust is a Punk Bitch and he Needs to Meet me at the Monkey Bars, High Noon
Clive Barker is a dick. No, really, he is. I love him for it. He tells such a passable story in such an enchanting way that we really like it in the end.
This is my first Clive Barker endeavor and I must admit how pleased I am with him. His writing isn't the most powerful or the most artistic, or even the most entertaining at parts, but it sure gets your attention and keeps it.
I don't know what goes on in Clive Barker's head but I wanna be there sometime, like an amusement park ride or something.
The Hellbound Heart is a re-hashed and updated version of Faust. Now, Faust through the decades has been an enchanting character but this book helps you to understand how much a bitch Faust really is.
Faust sells his soul to a devil and wastes his trade on bathroom humor. Faust puts saran wrap on toilets. The dudes in Lemarchand's box in The Hellbound Heart don't fuck around. When you open that box they take what's theirs, you. Whether you opened it on purpose or by complete accident, your soul is their and they rip it to shit.
Frank is the poor sap in this story who opens the box hoping for ultimate pleasure. He wants pleasure and women and sex and downright raunchy things porn-star industry people would be scared of. He gets what he wants and doesn't want it after all.
The humanoid creatures in the box come out and give you sensory pleasure, ultimate sensory pleasure. Rings under skin that stretch you, cuts, tears, needles, you name it and they tickle it real good and sensory-like.
Frank doesn't want to die into oblivion though and he escapes the box-dudes (Cenobites). In order to be human again he needs blood and dead bodies. He begins to recompose with the help of a lady. Everything hits the fan and if you thought things were twisted before enjoy the remainder of the ride.
Frank is a monster, Faust is a pansy and cry baby. In true Marlovian beauty someone's body gets ripped apart. That's art and that's beauty, that's the downright truth of it all.
This is my first Clive Barker endeavor and I must admit how pleased I am with him. His writing isn't the most powerful or the most artistic, or even the most entertaining at parts, but it sure gets your attention and keeps it.
I don't know what goes on in Clive Barker's head but I wanna be there sometime, like an amusement park ride or something.
The Hellbound Heart is a re-hashed and updated version of Faust. Now, Faust through the decades has been an enchanting character but this book helps you to understand how much a bitch Faust really is.
Faust sells his soul to a devil and wastes his trade on bathroom humor. Faust puts saran wrap on toilets. The dudes in Lemarchand's box in The Hellbound Heart don't fuck around. When you open that box they take what's theirs, you. Whether you opened it on purpose or by complete accident, your soul is their and they rip it to shit.
Frank is the poor sap in this story who opens the box hoping for ultimate pleasure. He wants pleasure and women and sex and downright raunchy things porn-star industry people would be scared of. He gets what he wants and doesn't want it after all.
The humanoid creatures in the box come out and give you sensory pleasure, ultimate sensory pleasure. Rings under skin that stretch you, cuts, tears, needles, you name it and they tickle it real good and sensory-like.
Frank doesn't want to die into oblivion though and he escapes the box-dudes (Cenobites). In order to be human again he needs blood and dead bodies. He begins to recompose with the help of a lady. Everything hits the fan and if you thought things were twisted before enjoy the remainder of the ride.
Frank is a monster, Faust is a pansy and cry baby. In true Marlovian beauty someone's body gets ripped apart. That's art and that's beauty, that's the downright truth of it all.
Peaceful Revolution...Ha...Good Joke...Oh, You're Serious...Sorry...No, Really, Sorry
Do you ever get that feeling like the world it turning to shit and you'd be better off with a desk job for some big corporation?
If you have answered yes to the above question than this book, Day After Tomorrow, is for you.
Mack Reynolds explores the future and it is grim. Well, grim for people who value themselves at least. If you value yourself as a bureaucratic cog in the great machine of work-landia then the future is perfect for you.
For those of use who like being human beings and having hobbies and relationships, the future sucks, and not in a good way. When people like us create The Movement to change the governing body we need to consider that the current governing bureaucratic monsters will stop at nothing to stop us.
We can have all the intellectuals and scientists we like, if they don't have guns its not going to work. Mack Reynolds informs us here that if we want a revolution there has to be bloodshed. Peaceful revolution attempts end in bloodshed anyway, just not the right kind.
We can martyr ourselves all we want and accomplish very little. Or we can try for a revolution that won't be televised. The ruthless agent sent to stop The Movement in this story is all too likable. I wouldn't mind hanging around with guy and drinking and shooting the shit with him, but when it comes to ideologies, anything goes.
Day After Tomorrow is a journey into the future of our civilization, I just wish it wasn't so eerily reminiscent of our current civilization.
If you have answered yes to the above question than this book, Day After Tomorrow, is for you.
Mack Reynolds explores the future and it is grim. Well, grim for people who value themselves at least. If you value yourself as a bureaucratic cog in the great machine of work-landia then the future is perfect for you.
For those of use who like being human beings and having hobbies and relationships, the future sucks, and not in a good way. When people like us create The Movement to change the governing body we need to consider that the current governing bureaucratic monsters will stop at nothing to stop us.
We can have all the intellectuals and scientists we like, if they don't have guns its not going to work. Mack Reynolds informs us here that if we want a revolution there has to be bloodshed. Peaceful revolution attempts end in bloodshed anyway, just not the right kind.
We can martyr ourselves all we want and accomplish very little. Or we can try for a revolution that won't be televised. The ruthless agent sent to stop The Movement in this story is all too likable. I wouldn't mind hanging around with guy and drinking and shooting the shit with him, but when it comes to ideologies, anything goes.
Day After Tomorrow is a journey into the future of our civilization, I just wish it wasn't so eerily reminiscent of our current civilization.
God Bless You Kurt Vonnegut (the world has truly lost something)
God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian is an amazing collection of short episodes. The premise to this story is simple: Kurt's friend Jack straps him down and brings him to the Pearly Gates where he gets to meet people who have died and gone to heaven. Then Jack brings him back and he reports on his interviews with the deceased.
The great thing about this plot is that Saint Peter has mood swings and sometimes doesn't play along.
Everyone gets into heaven.
When babies die they grow up to be angels.
Hitler is very apologetic but has paid his dues and wants his tombstone to read: “excuse me”.
William Shakespeare hates the way Kurt speaks.
Sometimes we need reminders that it is ok to laugh and ok to have fun, this is that reminder. This is all very marvelous in the end. Maybe take this book and put by your bed or in your bathroom and read one at a time. They're fast and jolly. You should thus be jolly too.
The great thing about this plot is that Saint Peter has mood swings and sometimes doesn't play along.
Everyone gets into heaven.
When babies die they grow up to be angels.
Hitler is very apologetic but has paid his dues and wants his tombstone to read: “excuse me”.
William Shakespeare hates the way Kurt speaks.
Sometimes we need reminders that it is ok to laugh and ok to have fun, this is that reminder. This is all very marvelous in the end. Maybe take this book and put by your bed or in your bathroom and read one at a time. They're fast and jolly. You should thus be jolly too.
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