Over the last (blessedly long) weekend, with a flourish of determination that the pharaohs of old would have been proud of, I set good time management to the wind and read three books.
Barring the two blissful hours I spent listening to 1 Up Yours (May you find fair winds Fragile Eagle!) reading was almost all I did. Just me, a formidable stash of Skittles (and later Old Gold Chocolate) and as little human contact as possible.
This weekend of nerd bacchanalia, in my mind, completes the implicit agreement I made with myself concerning the increase in books I’m going to this year. Actually that should really be ‘more good books’ (good being a totally subjective term, meaning, in this case, books that said to be good by other people- I’m talking Pulitzers here people!). I’m relying on others, because my generally fine tuned nose has been out of a book for so long that I wouldn’t know anything if it wasn’t for Orpah’s Book Club*
I know it’s in vogue to bash nostalgia- especially when said nostalgia is coming from the mind of a 22 year old- but I really think that reading was part of the cultural zeitgeist for children at the time. Any from of young adult literature was almost my substance for being over the first ten years of my life, whereas today it almost seems like any form of stationary activity involving children is discouraged.
Myself, like so many others, grew up on a steady stream of Teen Power Inc, and for those more prone to a good scare, Goosebumps novels. It wasn’t just a hobby, it was practically a necessity: I didn’t get any kind of videogame game system until the fifth grade, and the notion of pop music scared the bejesus out of me (I’m actually not kidding…). Thus, I needed something to whittle away my antisocial years (completion TBA), and reading was perfect mix- Enjoyable and Parent Friendly- it was like the Wii of the 1990’s
So, here are my three rushed interpretations and impressions on the three books that I read.
Take it To Limit: The True Story of the Eagles
Okay, true confessions time. This:
a) Wasn’t actually my book, I got it off aunt, who got it off the Library
b) Wasn’t actually all that great.
To be honest I only read this book because my Aunt has almost an encyclopedic knowledge of the Eagles, and I, in another tale of my never ending pop culture elitism, feel the need to match her.
The book explores the rise of the L.A based country music- simultaneously making the Eagles and agent David Geffen very famous and- presumably- very rich.
After reading this book, the only emotion stronger than that need for superiority is the uncontrollable urge to hit almost every one of the Eagles with the dual fists of rationale and common sense. The whole book left me with a feeling of bewilderment- just how great do the Eagles think that they are?
In fact, the running theme throughout the book seems to be just how unlikable everybody involved in the music business seems to be: Record companies, agents, and especially the musicians.
The most entertaining aspect of the book was that some idiot had proof read- sometimes incorrectly- for grammatical mistakes throughout the book (and written in corrections when deemed necessary.
Dear god, what sort of person needs to do that?
That, and the author’s gratuitous use of the term neo-nostalgic, I guess meaning that it’s now okay to be nostalgic about the way that nostalgia used to be.
Cormac McCarthy- The Road
So, here’s this Pulitzer business that I was talking about…
The Road seems to be the type novel that changes people- I don’t know if I’d put my experience into that deep a pit of hyperbole- but it’s certainly a brilliant book. Just like I’d hesitate to call it Science Fiction (Clive Thompson), or an environmental warning (Crazy Hippies). Instead, like all everything else that McCarthy seems to do, is inherently tied to humanity: Both the human race as a whole and race and how man treats its fellow man.
The apparent appearance of Deus Ex Machinima in the last 10 pages only underscores the most important thing about The Road: The Journey. Not only that of man and son, but also of the reader through the book. Even though the never learn how exactly the world got like this, it’s still evocative beyond belief. McCarthy’s prose perfectly suits the story, making one feel oddly aware- and disturbingly enough, at home- in the world he created.
Neil Gaiman- Ameircan Gods
I admit to placing too much value into the relative worth of television shows. It’s not quite up to an Almond Tanzarian level of fanboyism, but it’s creeping on up there. Thus, the main reason that I picked up this book was because of the considerable of influence it allegedly had over Supernatural.
After reading it, I not only see the parallels, but I feel curiously reassured that Supernatural knows what it’s doing, at least regarding finding a suitable ending (something that I was skeptical about). Supernatural skirts the perfect line between homage and plagiarism: It has similar themes, evokes a similar kind of landscape and style, but the storylines have little in common.
Standing on its own, American Gods is still a brilliant book. Even Gaimans’ introductory biography made me sigh ‘I wish I could write like that’. It’s similar to McCarthy’s The Road in the sense that both of them are road trip novels- a tale of traveling throughout the heart of
Throughout what may seem like a whimsical affair, Gaiman tackles some big issues. In fact it would be fair to say that when it comes to issues, Gods are about as big as they come. Gaiman tackles the beliefs humanity for millennia in an admirably personal sense, interceding the chapters of the present day with tales concerning just how gods made it to
*This is obliviously a joke, but I’ll be damned if The Road wasn’t a great choice.
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