My year in books

I am a list junkie. Making lists is my meditation, me therapy. I love when the end of the year comes and everybody's coming out with their best-of lists. And 2009 has the added bonus of end-of-the-decade lists. I devour them as if they were the only things sustaining me.

The list below is not a list of the best book sof the year, but rather all of the books I read. I don't want to preten it was a perfect year in reading (or in life), as if I never picked up something I regretted later. So here it is, 2009 in books. Let's see what I accomplished.

The Year of Living Biblically by AJ Jacobs
-Interesting

The Outlaw Bible of American Essays edited by Alan Kaufman
- A few good selections, but for the most part self-indulgent and vacuous.

2666 by Roberto Bolano
- Huge and disturbing in the best way possible.

The Enchantress of Florence by Salman Rushdie
- Disappointing and Confusing

Flannery by Robert Gooch
- A good book from a genre that can be tedious (literary biography)

A Live Coal in the Sea by Madeleine L'Engle
- An interesting story that could have made a good book had the writing been better.

Rabbit, Run by John Updike
- Devestating. Good. But not devestatingly good.

Watership Down by Richard Adams
- Bunnies!

The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough
- A guilty pleasure that I refuse to feel guilty about anymore.

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
Prince Caspian
by C.S. Lewis
- I think I may have read these a little too late in life to enjoy them thoroughly.

I Wish Someone Were Waiting for Me Somewhere by Anna Gavalda
- Read in one night. Excellent short stories.

Armageddon in Retrospect by Kurt Vonnegut
- Sad in content. Disappointing in quality. More is not always better - this is not how he should be remembered.

Twilight
New Moon
Eclipse
by Stephanie Meyer
- Easy to read bu HORRIBLY written. Couldn't get through the last book in the series.

Rabbit Redux by John Updike
- Ok, but the pity I felt for the protagonist in Rabbit, Run was turned to dislike and eye-rolling in this book.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
- Much different and much better than I expected.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
- Awesome, can't believe it took me this long to read it.

Tigana by Guy Gavirel Kay
- Intricate and fascinating.

Bright Dark Madonna by Elizabeth Cunningham
- I like Biblical revisions when they're done well, and this one was.

Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.
- Meh, but I don't see what the big deal is.

I Like You by Amy Sedaris
- Finally a cook book that doesn't take itself so seriously.

The Geography of Bliss by Eric Weiner
- Coule have been written as an interesting list of facts, because the rest of it was pretty pointless.

Loving Frank by Nancy Horan
- Frank Lloyd Wright was a jerk, but this book was good even though I knew how it ended.

The Sookie Stackhouse novels by Charlaine Harris
- This is a vampire series I can get behind, even if they do run together a bit for me.

ABC of Reading by Ezra Pound
- This guy was a nutbar, but a smart one.

Step Across This Line by Salman Rushdie
- Awesome, especially the part about "The Wizard of Oz"

The Pirates in an Adventure with Ahab
The Pirates in an Adventure with Scientists
by Gideon Defoe
- Completely silly

Breathers by S.G. Browne
- Romzomcom. Pirate humor is more to my liking than romantic zombie humor.

Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut
- Never gets old

Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie
- Like a toy gumball machine, it's the gift that keeps on giving

The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield
- Spooky and enjoyable.

Girl Mary by Petru Popescu
- So horrible in so many ways that it may be physically impossible to explain how.

The Year of the Flood by Margaret Atwood
- So good that it makes me think that Margaret Atwood knows something about the future of the human race that the rest of us don't know.

Handle With Care by Jodi Picoult
- So unnecessarily sad that I was kind of offended that she would force such improbable woe down my throat.

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
- Sad, but well written.

A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini
- Slightly less well written, but still incredibly touching.




And there may be a few more shoved in the couple weeks I have left of 2009.

Magnum Opus

(This is dedicated to Theresa. I told you I'd write a story about it, but bear with me. This is my first stab at fiction since my freshman creative writing class.)

______________________________

Magnum Opus

There was so much sweat that Amanda reasoned it should make running easier – lubrication for her prematurely aged body. But instead of greased lightning, she felt more like a jalopy as the other runners flew by in a blur of tan, spandex and only delicately damp paper numbers.    

                “I wish there was a pocket for my smokes in this outfit,” she thought. But no. The fuscia rayon circa 1992 track suit was pocketless in design, perhaps to enhance that oh-so-attractive “whish whish” noise it made when its wearer was in motion. Although the getup made her feel like she was running in a tight trash bag, she didn’t regret it nearly as much as the “vintage” headband she had purchased at Savers. Instead of taming her hair and warding off sweat, the tired elastic encased in pilled terrycloth mushroomed her hair out and framed her face with sticky, sweat-soaked tendrils. It also had the unfortunate effect of pushing her thick, fogged up glasses off kilter so that she looked like a drunk Buddy Holly.

                Amanda let out a new pained whimper for every time a foot hit the pavement.

                *                                                             *                                                             *

Two months before the rayon melted to her skin, Amanda had lunch with Theresa, a friend, former co-worker and fellow student of English.  They hadn’t seen each other since a wicked bout of viral meningitis had left Theresa weak and dizzy on her parents’ couch, where her sole objective was to not crash through the living room’s glass coffee table. She succeeded admirably.

Over Acoustic Café sandwiches, the two talked about the things that most concern the hardcore English major: home-brewed beer, magical realism, and what kind of inhaler works best in fighting off socially induced bouts of wheezing. Theresa had lots of things going on. She was working at two newspapers, finishing college, and arranging her plans for after graduation. Amanda was comparably busy working as a trained monkey at the insurance company, desperately fighting brain atrophy and living in constant fear of a deep vein thrombosis caused by her increasingly sedentary lifestyle.

                “So,” Theresa said after thirstily downing half a cup of coffee. “Any new dude interests?” She looked into her cup and then toward the counter, wondering if there were free refills. She had been trying to quit her coffee habit, but always found herself falling off the wagon and back into the arms of that hot sweet caffeinated mistress.

                “Um, well, there’s this one dude, we hang out sometimes …” Amanda gave a puzzled look, as if she had never really considered the situation before. “And I guess that’s about it.  Nothing more to the situation.”

                Theresa nodded politely while Amanda glanced around for something else to talk about. She saw her friend’s foot propped on the bench beside her. “Hey, how’s your leg? Still breaking from running all the time?”

                Theresa glanced down. “Thankfully it’s been pretty structurally sound. I’ve been training for this charity run that’s going down in a couple months. “ She paused and a slow smile crawled onto her face. “Heeeey.”

                “Um. Hi.”

                “You run, don’t you?”

                “I try, but usually only when it’s warm out,” Amanda said, trying to lower any expectation sof her athletic ability.

                “Great!” Theresa slapped the table as if some important matter had just been decided. “That means you can come do the fun run with me.”

                Amanda’s left eye (her “thinkin’ eye”) squinted while she tried to grasp the concepts of “fun” and “run” coexisting amicably.

                Theresa knew this squinty eye all too well. They had worked together as proofreaders at a company that put on seminars, and Amanda got that same look in her eye when she was about to tell some poor seminar assistant that NO she would NOT put that comma back, no matter how badly the seminar speaker wanted it to set off his “Esquire.” To avoid what would inevitably be a pitbull-like stranglehold on “No” that Amanda would have, Theresa blurted, “I’ll even help you get into shape!”

                Amanda’s eye unsquinted and an unsettling sparkle developed in that same thinkin’ eye. Theresa started to second guess her offer, scared of what Amanda was scheming.

                “Ok,” Amanda agreed. “But only if we have a Rocky-esque training montage, with me wearing sweats and you in a dirty stocking cap and chewing in a stubby cigar.”

                Theresa sighed and rolled her eyes. She should have known.

*                                                                             *                                                                                             *

 Theresa looks around on the sidewalk in front of the YMCA.

*bum*

She checks her watch.

*bum bum bum*

She wonders what crazy person is humming the intro to “Eye of the Tiger.”

*bum bum baaaaaaaah*

Amanda is running up the stairs to the Y in her version of slow motion, which looks like an octogenarian moving through molasses. At the top, she flails her arms wildly, belting out her own lyrics to the mangled melody of the classic 80s workout montage song.

“It’s the something something, it’s the thrill of the fight, gonna get into shape with the heeeeeeelp … of the Tiger.”

She pointed to the reddening Theresa. “Your new nickname is Tiger, by the way.”

Despite her conviction that Amanda had completely lost it, Theresa liked her new moniker.

*                                                                             *                                                                                             *

Upstairs at the Y, Theresa had convinced Amanda to do crunches on the black pads near the weight room. Theresa was still going strong, while Amanda was taking one of her many breaks. “If they didn’t want me to nap, they shouldn’t have made these pads so darn comfortable.” When Theresa didn’t respond, Amanda’s eys started wandering around the room. At the sight of an old man with a gray sweatshirt and a ring of white hair surrounding his baldness stooping to the water fountain, she was suddenly reminded of what she brought for Theresa.

                “Hey, I have a present for you.” Amanda reached into the pocket of her hoddie and pulled out a worn black stocking cap and half a cigar.

Theresa sat up on the mat and reached warily for the offerings. “That hat better be clean and that cigar better not be used.”

“Well, the hobo I bartered with for them in the alley by the Stones Throw told me they were brand new.” Amanda smiled at her trainer’s grimace. “I’m kidding, they’re both clean.”

Theresa pulled the cap over her blonde head and clamped the stogie between her teeth. “Let’s get your lazy rear down to spin class, Rock.”

*                                                                                             *                                                                                             *

Twenty minutes later, the two finally reached spin class. Amanda had insisted on jogging in slow motion while Theresa sang “Chariots of Fire.”

Once inside the darkened room filled with stationary bikes, Amanda turned to Theresa and grinned. “That was fun. Maybe I’m starting to like this whole working out thin –“

“GET YOUR ASSES IN THE SADDLES!” came the bellow of the spin instructor, a lean, tan, youngish woman who looked like she could strangle a rhino with her thighs.

Amanda and Theresa scramble onto the neares bikes. Colored string lights began to glow around them, and a loud, thumping music (German death metal?) started playing.

Amanda turned to her friend with a weak smile and terrified eyes. “This’ll be good, right?”

“GO!”

*                                                                                             *                                                                             *

The breath wheezed out of Amanda’s gaping mouth like a death rattle. Theresa seemed to be handling the 40 minutes of nonstop exertion and goading from the instructor much better – tired, but still in control of her bodily movements and pained exclamations.

Over her hyperventilation, Amanda still managed to hear the gruff, almost disappointed “Stop,” from the instructor. As the others started filing out of the room, Amanda slowly slid from the bike to the cool floor. She wondered where her legs had gone, because she sure as hell couldn’t feel them attached to her hips.

                “Exhausting.” Theresa said as she sat next to her immobile friend. “But it feels good, doesn’t it?”

                “I’m going to find that spin lady’s car and slash her tires,” Amanda finally managed to gasp. “She can bike home.”

Theresa chuckled. She knew Amanda wouldn’t follow through. The poor girl didn’t have anything near the upper body strength to cut through a car tire. “You’ll be fine,” she told her trainee, “especially with the help of this little beauty.” Theresa reached in to her pocket and pulled out a small, yellow inhaler. On one side was pasted a picture of William Faulkner’s face, and on the other was  scrawled the word “nerd-haler” in black Sharpie ink.

Amanda looked puzzled. “But you know I already have one.” She lifted the leg of her sweatpants to reveal a black nylon holster around her ankle, holding another inhaler. “Remember? Eddie Van Haler? I got it at that Toastmasters meeting. They were giving them out to all the first-time members before they made their first speeches.”

                “This isn’t just any ol’ free Toastmasters inhaler,” Theresa whispered in a voice that Merlin must have used when talking about Excalibur. “This one is fueled by rolled up scraps of Rabbit, Run, On the Road, and paragraphs from the collected works of Jonathan Swift. They’re all soaked in a combination of good chi, black coffee and Robitussin. It not only opens your lungs to oxygen, it opens your mind to the best literary ideas you’ll ever have.”

Amanda took the inhaler from Theresa reverently and slowly moved it toward her mouth. Theresa grabbed her hand, stopping her. “Not yet, grasshopper. Try it the next time you’re truly winded. You won’t get the full effect while you’re rested.

                “But Tiger. When will I get winded next? We don’t work out again until next week!”

                Theresa smiled. “Dude.”

*                                                                             *                                                                             *

                “Are you ok?”

The bed underneath Amanda’s hunched form was too soft – sinking into it made her feel even more lightheaded. As she gasped for air, she wondered how he could do it for so long without needing some kind of oxygen mask. She had come here for coitus, not a gymnastics meet.

While she focused on not falling off the bed, Theresa’s head suddenly appeared in a white thought cloud above her. “Uuuuuuuse the nerdhaaaaaler,” Theresa’s floating form had a mystical ghost voice. “Aaand puuut some paaants on, you neeed another mooonth of spinning before you’re allowed to waaaalk around naaaked, ooo.”

                “Are you OK?” he asked again.

                “Get my purse … need …nerdhaler.”

After a moment’s hesitation – what the fuck is a nerdhaler? – he grabbed Amanda’s bag and brought it to her. She dug out the nerdhaler, held the smooth cool plastic to her lips and pumped

there was a cool rush of what felt like the sweet lord’s own breath, that ruach Yahweh her pupils dilated her ribcage expanded … she was skipping through poppy fields with Ezra Pound and Salman Rushdie … Shakespeare was giving her mouth-to-mouth … Toni Morrison was enfolding her in a cushioned, restorative hug … Flannery O’Connor was holding her hand and assuring her among the peacocks that she could do anything, write that great American novel, run that marathon without choking, love and be loved in the most fulfilling ways

                and she exhaled.

*                                                                                             *                                                                                             *

The tight stickiness of the rayon track suit made Amanda sympathize with that lady in “Goldfinger” who had that gold latex suit painted on her. Except the cheaply made track suit and the body it adhered to were way less sexy. Just as Amanda was putting her body on autopilot, Theresa jogged up beside her.

“Morning sunshine!”

Amanda swung a clumsy, fogged up sideways glance at her friend. “I’ve begun hallucinating. There’s no way I was beating you.”

                “Of course not, grasshopper. I already run the race. I thought I’d come back and run with you just for funsies.”

                “Yeah,” Amanda grunted. “Funsies. Try not slip on my trail of sweat and despair.”

                “Wait.” Theresa’s grin faded. “Why are you so exhausted? Where’s the nerdhaler? Did you lose it? Don’t tell me you lost it.”

Amanda stared at her feet as if they belonged to some other poor asshole running a fun run. “No, no. I still have it.” She winced at Theresa apologetically. “But, um …. I kind of used it all up.”

                “What?!? Do you know how much the English Department charges to refill one of those? Two hundred dollars, plus a 15-page, perfectly MLA formatted paper on the literary figure of their choice. That inhaler cost me 20 hours of research on Milton. MILTON, I TELL YOU! What the hell did you use it for?”

                “Well, I would do jumping jacks around my living room and then take a hit and use the resulting high to write you a story,” Amanda said softly, her lower lip trembling, “to thank you for being such a great train—“ but she couldn’t finish the thought, because just then the exhaustion became too much. Her legs gave way and she tumbled to the hot pavement.

                Theresa stopped and sighed. She glanced at Amanda’s sprawled form. She couldn’t stay mad. The poor dear had written her a story. She knelt and tapped Amanda’s pale cheeks. “It’s ok,” Theresa said as Amanda groggily came to.

                “Really? But now I won’t be able to finish the race. I’ve let you down.”

                “Oh, yes you will finish this race, Rock.” Theresa threw Amanda’s arms around her shoulders and lifted her like a child. As she jogged towards the finish line, her burden’s legs flopping clumsily, Amanda offered, “Hey Tiger, you wanna hear the story I wrote for you?”

                “Sure,” Theresa said in a strained voice made thin by the weight of her fallen companion.

                “Ok, here goes. ‘There was so much sweat that Amanda reasoned it should make the running easier …’”

 

end

Gandhi's stuff

This week James Otis auctioned off a collection of Gandhi's stuff he'd acquired over the years. There was a watch, his glasses and some other small things. The Indian government filed an (unsuccessful) injunction to stop the auction so they could work on getting the artifacts back to India. Otis said he'd consider it if India promised to increase the amount of their budget spent on the poor from 1% to 5%. 

This seems like a pretty noble, selfless action, but I really can't see it as anything but blackmail. Sure, I'd like to see poor people with more than they have. Who wouldn't? But is it really fair to hold a country's beloved historical artifacts up for ransom to get it done? What would public opinion be in America if someone from another purchased Lincoln's hat and said he would only give it back if Barack Obama guaranteed health insurance for all Americans? I would imagine people would be pretty pissed off, and rightfully so. 

This quid pro quo idea of Otis' just reeks of a superiority complex, of patronization -- you'll get your toy back if you promise to share your candy with the other children. I say that if India wants the artifacts of one of their most beloved and cherished leaders, then let them have them. And apparently they did get them -- and Indian businessman bought them and donated them to the Indian government to put on display.

However presumptuous and god-like this jackass Otis seems to be, I have to wonder -- if these artifacts are so special, why didn't the Indian government have them in the first place? Why did it have to get this far? I guess I'm not as up to speed on my history of dead people's belongings as I should be. 

Why do we care so much about these things anyway? Sure, they can serve as potent remembrances of one of the major players of Indian independence. But do they really warrant court cases, ultimatums, millions of dollars and international upheaval? I don't think so, and in my limited knowledge of Gandhi, I doubt he would either. Things didn't mean a lot to him, obviously, but action against oppression certainly did. I wonder how many people to started to death in India and America while this argument was going on. I wonder how many people died in rape camps or war prisons all over the world while we were decided who gets to keep a ratty par of sandals. Symbols are important, I realize that. But there's got to be a line concerning just how important. 

Post script: A quick not to Otis -- Stop it. You're acting like a jackass. You don't like how the Indian government is handling poverty? Give some of your more than ample paycheck to private charities and NGOs who are actually doing something about it instead of trying to politically manhandle the government of one of the biggest nations on Earth. It makes you look stupid.