Sometimes, there are times when we do not have access to electronics. Apparently, there are other forms of media to accommodate that situation. There are these black and while pieces of paper that have icons on them arranged in a certain order that conveys ideas directly into the brain when you decode them. These things are called "books" and they entertain you when you "read" them. They don't even require electricity. What will they think of next?

I just  finished "reading" A Dirty Job, which is a "book" by Christopher Moore. In short, it was pretty good in a modern day whimsical style.

I found this book by looking for something similar to Terry Pratchett. Moore is described as entertaining, the only criticism is that he isn't British. A Dirty Job has truly enjoyable characters and it looks at death with classic ideas in a modern setting. I think even though the plot of the book isn't as flushed out as it could be, I though that the book was enjoyable just because we looked at the lives of entertaining characters. These characters knew they were being funny (vs Terry Pratchett, in which everything is done with tongue in cheek).

In short, if you enjoy zainy books and like Terry Pratchett and Douglas (Hitchhiker's Guide), this book is on the recommended list. If you only read Clancy or King, maybe you should just wait another 6 days or so when a new King book comes out.

Rawr!

....see, that wasn't even convincing to me. Okay, I'm gonna write a few more review sort of things. The 'Twilight' one generated very little in the way of hits, but like any green-blooded human, I'm inordinately fond of espousing my blessed opinion on the goodness or badness or badassness of 'things-I-deign-to-pay-attention-to'.

Here goes:

Practical Demonkeeping- the book by Christopher Moore. Thumbs up. This dude makes me laugh. I don't know if it's as funny as Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove, but it's pretty funny. Like the passages in Lust Lizard that feature the warrior babe, Maggie, there are a few scenes in Demonkeeping that had me doubled over. The rest of it moves quickly, and applies familiar personalities and responses to supernatural situations, in classic Christopher Moore style. He's kinda made his own genre out of terrifying Pine Cove citizens.

'A Walk in the Woods' by Bill Bryson: Thumbs way up. This book was suggested to me by someone very tall. It was great. The typical voracious reader is probably more familiar with Bryson than I was on reading this book, so you may know his pages are filled with two things: A broad-ranging cornucopia of interesting information, and a whole lot of humor. This book centers around Bryson's quest to hike the gargantuan Appalachian Trail. I fell deeply in love with the hilarious character 'Katz', which added to the tremendously satisfying reading experience.

Iron Man- A-Ok. I was entertained. That's what I went to the movie to be. Robert Downey Jr. did a fine job in the role, and he's always fun to watch in my opinion. As far as first reels of a superhero saga go, Toby Maguire still takes the cake with his introduction of Spidey. But then, Peter Parker, the good-hearted underdog is easier to embrace than the megalomaniac Tony Stark.

Two beefs with the film: I kept hearing about the chemistry between Gwyneth Paltrow and Robert Downey Jr., and in all honesty, it just wasn't there. She's a very pretty lady, and she looks stunning as a red; he's a hottie and a half, but I never got sparks from their interactions. It seemed to me they'd contentedly be plain old buddies until the end of time. What I really hated about the movie was Terrence Howard's role. It didn't do him justice, and I grated against seeing such a powerful, intelligent actor in such a one-dimensional character that was obviously secondary to that of megalomaniac, Stark. I give the movie a B.

Finally... the new pop hit: "Still Bleeding" by Leona Lewis- Thumbs way, way down. This song sounded so appealing when I first heard it, it sucked me right in. And then I realized my daughter was singing the lyrics, and I thought about who this song is directed to. I wasn't sure I was hearing the lyrics right, at first, so I looked them up to be sure, cus it just didn't seem possible that this beautifully packaged pop-song could be saying what it sounded like it was saying.

Before I recount those lyrics here, I want to point out that the target audience for most pop songs are girls ages 11-14. That's why Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan and Hillary Duff hit it big. Kids grew up with these girls on Disney, they idolized them. Their song lyrics are projected at the sentimental early teenage heart. Hanna Montanna is a cash-cow, she hits that demographic right on the nail.

Bearing that in mind, take a look at these popular hit lyrics by Leona Lewis:

But I don’t care what they say
I’m in love with you
They try to pull me away
But they don’t know the truth
My heart’s crippled by the vein
That I keep on closing
You cut me open and I

And it’s draining all of me
Oh they find it hard to believe
I’ll be wearing these scars
For everyone to see

*shudders*

This is not an obscure indie song, this is playing on all the big radio stations twice an hour.

I don't even know how to express... how damaged this culture is just from the fact that the song became a hit. There's already something masochistic about the world of female adolescence, this is when eating disorders crop up, this is the time of life when a girl is most likely to throw away her own goals, her sense of self for the approval, the admiration of a boy. Now we have a hit on the radio that essentially equates love with suicide, and the teller of that tale romanticizing the fact that he cut her open and she keeps bleeding for him, for love.

It makes me sick.

Sick.

I'm not just saying that, I got nauseated thinking about this again, so that'll mark a close to today's reviews. Happy Tuesday.

Our hero is Samson Hunts Alone, a Crow Indian who was forced to leave home, but has the luck (?!) to have Old Man Coyote as his spirit guide.  Coyote is a trickster, chameleon, and shapeshifter extraordinaire.

Coyote Blue is nothing if not odd.  But vastly enjoyable.

Rating:  3.5 out of 5 stars

Currently Reading, originally uploaded by Tokenhippygirl.

Currently reading this in Oregon.

Taken with the iPhone.

From this hour I ordain myself loosed of limits and imaginary lines.
-Walt Whitman

A Dirty Job is about death and our inability to deal with it. Making that funny is quite a trick. The book starts off with a human death, and it's rather sad, actually. Most of the remaining casualties are pretty comic, but not that first one. Anyway, in terms of animals, Bummer and Lazarus are dogs loyal to The Emperor of San Francisco (just trust me on this), and one of them is rewarded for intrepidity towards the end of the book. However, another character has trouble keeping pets alive for a while, given certain powers that take a while to sort out. Those pets aren't really given much discussion, and they are briefly mourned. Then the hellhounds show up. The hellhounds are indestructable and the epitome of canine loyalty. They'll eat anything. As one character says "Okay, you're hellish beasts from another dimension, and you like toast." A named pet dies in the middle of the book, but we don't learn much about him and, in typical Moore fashion, he is briefly mourned. Past that, I can't say too much, except that the dogs are prominent among the good guys.

I highly recommend this book.

Pretty entertaining and it took place in San Francisco. I'd read more of his stuff, if I have the time. I have a hefty reading list to get through.

In no particular order, they are:

Chuck Palahniuk. Fight Club was great. Survivor was awesome. But it was Invisible Monsters that inspired me to use experimental sentence structures.

Kurt Vonnegut. A cliche, I know. But he was the one who showed me how to properly use humor in telling a story.

Christopher Moore. One of only a few authors who can make me laugh out loud.

Scott Smith. If there is one book you should read out loud, The Ruins, is it. Not only is it one of the most suspenseful books you'll ever read, it's also one of the most fluid. That it's structured as one continuous chapter is also pretty cool.

Alexandre Dumas. Never will I be able to construct a story as rich and complex as The Count of Monte Cristo. Though maybe someday I'll come close.

Bret Easton Ellis. Yes, his stuff is insane and over-the-top. But that's what makes it so cool. He completely ignores the line but does so with a point. Not an easy feat.

Franklin W. Dixon. The Hardy Boys got me reading. Reading got me writing. What more can I say?

My reaction to it has me gripped with fear that whatever I write today will assuredly turn to crap four years from now.  Do writers such as Margaret Atwood, Christopher Moore, Michael Chabon, Jeffrey Eugenides or Neil Gaiman ever have these fears now that they have experienced publishing success?

I don't think my story is completely unsalvageable,  but it needs a serious overhaul before I bring it out into the light of day.  Meanwhile, I have to work on staring down my mortification.

I've cycled through many eddies and whirlpools of obsession in my life, including drawing; fiber arts (I dare you to find one I haven't tried); astrology; natural medicine; dream interpretation; self-help books (I let this go when I realized they made me feel worse about myself); searching for signs from the Universe (a particularly mind-bending exercise); Christopher Moore books, Neil Gaiman books, darned near any book, really; writing; human creativity; and quite a number of musical acts, including Duran Duran, Ultravox, U2, and Dave Matthews Band.  I've barely scratched the surface of the obsessions I've catered to in my life.

But, enough about me!  Now it's time for a meme.  List five things you've been obsessed with in your life (not including family and friends) and one way in which one of your obsessions left you embarrassed.  (I read once that the things you love choose you,  so don't be too embarrassed about either your obsessions or any embarrassment caused by your obsessions.  It's not completely your fault. ;) )

Okay, back to me, fulfilling the meme I've just created.

5 Obsessions (Don't bother throwing a rope while these suck me into the vortex.  I'll surface on my own when I'm done exploring.)

1.  Entropy

2.  Copyright law

3.  Alternate reality games

4.  NIN's music

5.  Capturing the essence of music in my fiction

One embarrassment caused by an obsession:  While I was in high school and caught in my Duran Duran obsession, I entered a contest sponsored by the band in which fans could ask for something from the band.  I asked for Simon LeBon's fedora and his accent.  Sheesh!

Now it's time for tagging.  I'm gonna tag a bunch of you, both bloggers and non-bloggers.  Non-bloggers can leave their answers in the comment section.  I'll let you bloggers decide how many people you want to tag.

You're It! - Kim, Joanne, Ryan, Erin, Manoj, Jody, Alice, Rianna, A.K., and O.W.

Chapter One

She hated working in midtown, especially on nights like tonight. The afternoon, sunny and borderline balmy for this late in November, had offered no hint of the torrential temper tantrum the skies would open up at the night progressed. And now here she was, her red patent leather pumps being soaked through and through, and completely sans umbrella.
 
Cursing under her breath, she hurried down the deserted streets, the click of her heels drowned out by the pounding of the rain on the pavement. Her hair was ruined, she knew, and the water ran down her neck and under the collar of her coat, seeping into the inner lining. There was really no saving at this point. She paused under the scaffolding on 47th St to consider her options. On the one hand, a cab was going to be relatively difficult to hail given the weather, but on the other, the idea of standing, drenched, on a subway platform at 3 am waiting for a train who's regularity was suspect even on the best of days didn't seem much better. Lost in thought, she almost missed the standard-issue yellow cab coming down the street. Its light was on; amazing. She thrust her hand up and out into the street, praying he'd stop and mentally thanking whatever deities dealt with transit that she'd actually found a cab.
 
Aryn was in no mood to even be working tonight, and the rain, which usually meant she'd be in demand, hadn't done much to improve her mood. Two trips to the Upper East Side and a hellish drive to Williamsburg, during which she had been subject to the drunken ramblings of three clearly intoxicated 19-year  olds, were more than enough to convince her she needed a new job. At first the cabbie gig had seemed ideal. Drive like a maniac, honk your horn, curse, and get paid. Right up her alley. But now, a week later and with a cab that smelled of vomit, courtesy of the drunken hipsters that had recently exited her vehicle, she had to admit to herself that just maybe, there were easier ways to make money. Her back piece wasn't going to pay for itself, but really, tattoos were no reason to put up with this kind of abuse.
 
So when the white coat clad brunette thrust her arm out to hail the cab, Aryn wasn't having it. It was late, the cab reeked, the tips had been shitty, and anyone she picked up at this hour was bound to be drunk and going someplace she didn't feel like driving. Switching on her off duty light, she floored it and sped her way past the girl down Fifth Ave, taking pleasure in hitting a particularly extensive puddle on her way.
 
Sorren wiped the dirty water from her face and stared down at her ruined coat in disgust. Fuck it. She'd take the train.

 Chapter 2

Shit. Aryn slammed the toe of her Docs into the flat tire. Shit, shit, shit! You know, there just comes a point when the you can't think anything but that the cosmos are laughing at you, she fumed. Defeated, she grabbed her bag, clipboard, and locked the cab.   Let them tow it. At this point I could really care less. Then, pulling her baseball cap tightly onto her head, she headed for the nearest subway station.
__
 
Considering she had braved a miniature hurricane, Sorren was in decent shape. Her hair had started to dry, and although there was no hope of salvaging the stylist's work from the photo shoot, she consoled herself by making small adjustments in the reflection of the Plexiglas on the subway map. The coat would have to be dry cleaned, but again, not the end of the world. Now if only the damn train would...
 
A sudden breeze, inconsistent with the tepid stillness of the station, interrupted her reflection, heralding the approach of the downtown W.
 
Finally, she thought as to train ground to a halt. The car was empty, and in the state she was in, Sorren was more than grateful. The last thing I need tonight is to be accosted my some hobo... Jesus my feet hurt. Only six stops to go. I need a drink.
 
---
The man next to her smelled. Tendrils of sour sweat and stale Cheetos accosted her nostrils and it was all Aryn could do to keep down the Dunkin Donuts egg and cheese bagel she had scarfed down earlier.  The seat was nowhere near ideal, but the stairs were currently occupied by a canoodling couple, and the floor was... well, pretty bad, even by New-York-in-the-rain standards. No one had ever claimed the 34th Street Station was appealing, and she was exhausted. So here she sat, as far away from the bum as possible without falling of the bench.
 
The rush of air that preceded the oncoming train was nothing sort of a gift from the heavens. Taking a moment to suck in the momentarily fresh air, Sorren buried her nose in her jacket and made a dash for the open doors of the car.

Chapter 3

Not her night. Really, REALLY not her night. The minute the doors had closed behind her, Aryn knew she was fucked. There, sitting across from her in the otherwise empty car sat a girl wearing red patent leather pumps. At first, they had been little more that a welcome distraction from her life, but as her eyes followed the line  of the girl's leg up towards a dirtied jacket, her stomach dropped. She had seen this girl before. Granted, the hair had been more deflated due to the rain, but there was no doubt in her mind that the distracting creature sitting in front of her was the same passenger she had so recently doused with an extra gallon of Grade A street water in a moment of rage. God she was glad the girl hadn't seen her face... she hoped. Pulling her cap a little further down over her face, Aryn did her best to become invisible.
___
Sorren was playing the boy/girl game. The hat wasn't helping.  She hadn't been paying attention when the lanky frame in front of her had dashed into the car, and to be frank, she wasn't totally pleased either. Quality alone time on the subway was hard to come by, and at this point she just wanted to be home with a glass of wine and her cat. Maybe some ice cream... mmmm ice cream.
 
The figure shifted, slinking down futher into the seat, and promptly knocked over their backpack. The bag wasn't so large, but it hadn't been completely closed either, and within moments, the floor of the car was decorated with its contents. The figure was on the floor in a matter of seconds, grabbing for the scattered papers in an attempt to keep them somewhat ordered and as dry as possible. As she leaned forward to help with the process, a small bottle rolled across the car and came to rest against her shoe.
 
It was at that moment that the train they were riding in decided to come to a screetching halt. And she lurched to the floor, bottle of lube still in hand, Sorren smiled.
 
Girl.

Chapter 4

They were laughing uncontrollably, so engrossed in each other that by the fourth somewhat garbled apology and plea for patience... something about track work and moving shortly, neither really cared. Here, at 3 am in a stalled train, both of their nights had taken a turn for the better. Granted, Aryn planned to keep her mouth shut about the puddle incident.
 
"No, but really. It's not conducive to that at all. What the hell is she thinking?" Aryn managed to gasp.
 
"I have no idea," Sorren replied. "I mean, she has been reading a lot lately, but I would have thought, based on her experience in the field, she would have had a bit more finesse."
 
I can hear you, you know.
 
"Well then step it up woman! Drop the pretense and make with the point. You think YOU'RE sick of this? You've been stringing me along for 2 and a half chapters already! And in HEELS!"
 
Aryn grinned. "Shall we help her out a little sweetheart?"
 
"Yes lets. All this narrative is starting to make my head hurt. And besides..."
 
Whatever it was Sorren was going to say, it was gone now, cut off by Aryn's mouth closing roughly over hers.

Chapter 5

There is not thinking, just the overwhelming scent of your pale white skin, and the sound of the moans that escape your lips. Hands firmly gripping your torso, I can push you against the door of the train and keep you pinned there while my mouth explores the exposed flesh below your jacket, trailing urgent biting kisses over your breasts. You arc into me and your fingers lace through my hair, pulling me in, so I dig my fingers into the muscles of your back and then release them. Between my hips and my mouth I can keep you against the side of the car, at least long enough to free my hands and pull off the stained white jacket.
 
Star tattoos describe the side swelling of your breasts. They look new, but at the moment I'm not interested in caution. My hands slide up your arms, fingers hooking the straps of both shirt and bra, and in one strong, clean movement they've been repositioned around your waist.
 
There is a sharp intake of breath, and I couldn't say if it's the cold hard aluminum on your bare back, or my mouth teasing your nipple, suckling, biting, soft for a moment, then hard, describing circles and imagining what your must taste like elsewhere. I hope it's both.
 
Meanwhile, my left hand is back on your torso, still kneading it with my fingers, abusing the other nipple with my thumb, and mimicking the movements of my tongue. Then, hungry for your mouth, your taste, and your sound, I come back to your lips. They crush against mine and our tongues spar, at least until I bite your lower lip. My palm finds a resting place at the nape of your neck, and I pull your head back to better expose jawline and neck.
 
Don't think my right hand has been idle. I've run it across your thighs, still kneading, and worshipping the legs of a woman as you can only do when she wears high heels.What nails I have are dragging rough lines upper your inner thigh, pushing your skirt with it.  It's just the right length for the suggestion of sensuality without the pretense of underwear. I work my hand upwards, and with the first contact, a growl emits from my throat. So wet. I fucking love it. My fingers pass over your clit and you spasm into me. My hips buck forward, and they slip into you, two, three... and I return my mouth to yours to capture and horde the sighs escaping from them. I spare a thought for the advantages of my strap on at such a moment, but am quick to admit I like this more. Here, with my hand buried inside you, I can feel every movement, muscle, and tissue, and it drives me on to match your rhythm. Harder. Faster. Deeper. More.
 
I am so intent in this moment that the lurching of the train throws me, and we almost fall. Thank God for the side railings on the seats.
There is a pause, both of us breathing heavily, where we have to take stock. Two minutes. I have two minutes at absolute best. No wait. It's a local. Fuck. I have less.
 
You're looking at me, her chest and cheeks flushed, waiting to see what I'll do. Without breaking eye contact I put my forehead on yours and smile. I can almost taste the frustration and regret in your eyes.
 
Then, without warning, my hand returns to you and plunges in. Your eyes go wide, but I'm holding them with mine, and as for your body, well you're trapped against the railing, and I'll be damned if I'm letting you go. Fuck the MTA. I'll take my chances.Besides, we're against the left side doors. That gives us another 2 stops.
 
You've managed to brace your leg against the railing, and my left arm is now hooked under your knee. Out the window another train is passing, its few passengers sleepy or smug in their express train superiority. I don't care. My eyes aren't leaving yours. Instead I speed up, working my fingers in circles and pumping into you while your fingers dig into my shoulders. You don't even try to lower your voice as the doors open and close at 28th, then 23rd.
 
The muscles in my arm are burning, but you're so close, and I grit my teeth, your body driving me mad as I fuck you. I stop my thrusting as the doors close at 23rd, and your muscles spasm around my fingers, and just enjoy the power of your orgasm.
 
It's with regret that I let your leg down and remove my hand from where it rests, still cradled inside of you. I move it slowly, loathe to lose this connection. As the train pulls into 14th Street, you adjust your skirt and reach for your bag.
 
"This is my stop," you tell me, and before I can shake the post-sex haze from my head to ask for your number, you've retrieved your jacket from the floor and are out the door. I stare in disbelieving stupor, as your form moves down the platform. Then something switches back on in my head and slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I make a more to follow you. I'm stopped abruptly at the door by your hand.
 
"Oh by the way," you say as the discordant chimes sound a warning of closing doors, "You owe me a new jacket."
 
You pull your hand off my chest and out of the way of the closing metal panels, and I find myself standing, staring at you through an impenetrable wall of aluminum and plastic. Your card falls, but I stand, watching you until your form is lost to the darkness of the tunnel.
 
_
 
Aryn bent down to retrieve the card, and put it in her pocket. Pity you can't smoke in the subway, she thought. Ah well. Taking a seat in the once again deserted car, she thoughtfully inserted a finger into her mouth and sucked it clean, then smiled. It was just how she'd hoped the girl would taste. Maybe it hadn't been such a bad night after all.

Instead of reading something weighty like Dawkins or Hitchens, I decided to take something a little more light-hearted. I chose to finish by religion-binge with Christopher Moore's hilarious book Lamb: The gospel according to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal.

Surprisingly my first impression of this book is that it is not nearly as sacreligious as it could have been. In fact, unless you consider someone telling a fictional tale of Jesus' missing years (from birth to about 30) as sacreligious in and of itself, then I would dare say that Christopher keeps the Jesus of Christianity intact.

Let me start by giving a brief synapsis of the book. Levi bar Alpheas (aka Biff) is risen from the dead by an angel into modern times and ordered to write a new Gospel of Jesus (Joshua's) life. Biff has a unique perspective since he was Joshua's best friend and was by Joshua's side from 5 years old until his death on the cross. Biff tells his story filling in a number of the "blanks" left in the Gospels since most of the disciples/apostles that wrote the Gospels and beyond only knew Jesus from the time he started his ministry at age 30.

This book is absolutely hilarious, these are just 2 examples that had me laughing out loud (I think I might have scared the guy next to me on the plane).

 This excerpt takes place when Joshua and Biff are traveling to the East in search of the three wise men so that Joshua can learn how to be the Messiah, they are about 15 years old and are just about to meet the first wise man, Balthasar,

"I'm Joshua of Nazareth, " Joshua said, trying to be casual, but his voice broke on Nazareth. "And this is Biff, also of Nazareth. We're looking  for Balthasar. ...

"Balthasar is no more of this world." The dark figure reached into his robe and pulled out a glowing dagger, which he held high, then plunged into his own chest. There was an explosion, a flash, and an anguished roar as if someone had killed a lion. Joshua and I turned and frantically scratched at the iron door, looking for a latch. We were both making an incoherent terrorized sound that I can only describe as the verbal version of running, sort of an extended rhythmic howl that paused only when the last of each lungful of air squeaked out of us."

and then again, after leaving Balthasar they have just been accepted into the Buddhist monastery of Gaspar where they have been given a list of all the rules they must follow, stripped of their identity and been assigned numbers, Joshua is Monk Number 22 and Biff is Monk Number 21, they are being given their first assignments lessons,

"Monk Number Twenty-two," Gaspar said to Joshua, "you shall begin by learning how to sit."
"I can sit," [Biff] said.
"And you, Number Twenty-one, will shave the yak."
"That's an expression, right?"
It wasnt

I don't know how funny these passages translate when taken out of the book but I'm laughing just thinking about Biff shaving that yak. Ouch.

Anyway, I hope you get a chance to read the book, it delves into a lot of Eastern philosophies, like Buddhism and Yoga that you can find evidence of in the New Testament. This book actually makes Jesus seem a lot more human than many in Christianity ever get a sense of. He fears, he laughs, he get angry, he cusses (ok that one might bug people), he is curious about sex, he loves, he feels guilt, he's human and in this book unlike in the real Gospels, you get the feeling that Jesus actually understands what it is like to be human, not some holier-than-thou God/Man that no one ever has the hope of ever of even coming close to. 

In Lamb, Moore gives readers a comical look into the childhood of the world's most influential inhabitant. Along the way, the reader picks up other little known "facts," such as the origin of the theory of evolution, Judo (Jewdo) and sarcasm.

The story is told from the point of view of Biff, the best friend, constant companion and near exact opposite of Joshua (Jesus). Biff is an unrepentant sinner (he loves his adulteresses) and at times is pretty violent, but you'd be hard pressed to find a better friend.

Why have you not heard of Biff before? Well, the reason for his being written out of the gospels is also in the book. You'll have to read that to find out.

I'd recommend this book to anyone you allows religion and a sense of humor to mix. For the more zealous types, I wouldn't advise reading it, as it would most likely just raise your ire.

This Friday's finds weren't books found for me, but were books instead found for others, one for Buy A Friend A Book Week (even though I'm a week behind).

That one book that I found for a friend at our local used bookstore was:

I admit I haven't read it, but the friend for whom I'm getting it is a graduate of seminary and when he was visiting my wife and me from South Korea recently, he was browsing the book at the bookstore and laughing out loud. He kept saying, "This is really funny." However, he said he didn't think he'd have room to take it with him when he and his new bride returned overseas. So on a spur of the moment, the other day, several months after his visit, I decided to buy it for him and will be sending it to him shortly. I hope he enjoys it (and hope he doesn't see this post).

The other two books that I purchased at the store were for my wife:

I have never heard of either one, but I thought they'd look like the kind of books my wife would like.

I Vacation, part III Originally uploaded by yaelol

Going on vacation as i did, means no camera, means i relay on friends and the web to provide the atmosphere. and these pictures indeed were taken by friends.

Friends however, cannot write my experiences for me. they can and do contribute to them; can be part of them, and therefore part of me.

So, with many months old perspective, here i am, ready to complete this amazing trip to Virgin Islands, only to clear the cue for Budapest and Paris, Puerto Rico and Israel, St. Petersburg, Russia and the many little things that collectively are called my life.

Virgin Island.

The islands, are anything but virgin. many races have been here and gone, many left some genetic cells behind. some left more. Food, music, cloths... Then the tourists came and took away the virginity.

I can't help but recall the crazy book I recently read, that takes place on an island not far from St. John VIUS. "Crazy" doesn't even come close to describing the wild rich imagination of the writer. Island of the Sequined Love Nun by Christopher Moore. What can bring cannibals, a talking bat and a drunk pilot together to one small island?

Guess you'll have to read the book. However, as islands go, some things are true for both the fictional and the one I've been visiting.

Where it's never cold, mostly too humid, and, as islands go, there's water all around. I managed to avoid the water. Mostly. Months after the latest and last Harry Potter came out, Harry and I were finally together. Harry was with me by the pool, everyday, for hours at the time. Until almost the very end, at least Harry was virgin. and now they are making a movie.

Good as Potter is for a vacation companion, I had friends to meet. What are the chances that Rich and Pat, close friends from NJ, will end up here, at the same as me? I wonder which butterfly flapped its wings to make this happened. And then again, who cares. The best day of this first-in-a-long-time vacation was spent with them.

As it turned out, not all resorts were born equal. Ruti and I were staying @ the Westin Resort, and thought the place was almost OK, other than a bit too many honeymooners and kids. Until we joined Rich and Pat at Caneel Bay. No kids under 16, private beaches all around. . . Mr. Laurance Rockefeller, the original owner, loved the environment, loved to enjoy it too. However, being a Rockefeller, he had to make money too. So he developed few environmentally oriented resort hotels in Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands, Hawaii and Vermont, serving as chairman of Rockresorts, Inc., a resort management company which he founded and chaired. [http://www.hotel-online.com/News/PR2004_3rd/Jul04_LRockefeller.html]

In addition, L. Rockefeller was key in the creation and development of several national parks including Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming, Virgin Islands National Park on the island of St. John (I'm here) and Marsh, Billings, Rockefeller National Historical Park in Vermont. Judging by the one visited - Caneel Bay, St. John - the guy knew what he was doing. Look at the photos from their website.

After the hugs and the laughs, we head to Breakfast. And it feels like I'm a guest in a plantation. The waiter who delivers great coffee has white gloves on. The Breakfast buffet is big on the eggs and meat side, and the cushioned rattan furniture all fit the image in my mind.

Breakfast done, it's time for the beach. The 6 of us have a private beach all to ourselves. In comparison, the Westin suddenly is nothing but the public pool of the hood. Even the water looks better, and i can't help but go in for a swim. More than once. In between our conversations cover world politics, recent development in the medical field - unavoidable when two of your friends are doctors-, getting me to rave about the wonders of Blackberry, and all of us have our books or magazines to fall back to.

Hiking with Pat along the isolated trails, I'm impressed with the artful way of creating a resort which is well manicured yet are natural and a little wild, and offers the privacy level only a Rockefeller could afford.

Blue clear water, sun, short hike, what else is missing? A 4 O'Clock tea. The tea is wet, the scones are fresh and warm; i can't remember if there were cucumber sandwiches or not. but if there were, they were fresh and perfect, like everything else. To remind me of reality, a laptop walk in a joins us. Stock and investments take wi-fi with their tea. Not sure is this was part of Laurance Rockefeller's vision. Regardless, I love the place.

After our goodbyes, we head back to the Westin resort, and it feels so less cool than before. Ruti gets her book and I go back to Harry.

I take a day trip to Saint Tomas with Larry and Linda, only to find myself in a shopping hell. Everyone is nice, and polite and has something to sell. You name it, it's there. I end up buying couple of magnets and this is it. The food is good, the company is great, and I'm happy.

We take the ferry back to St. John and Ruti who'd been studying all day. In a funny way, it makes the vacation even feel more like a vacation. Sorry Ruti.  I just a whole day off-line. This is a vacation.

This is our last night. Ruti is taking the morning ferry, and I take the afternoon one. She'll fly east, and I'll fly West.  Hugs, kisses, walking Ruti to the water. 3 hours later, Larry and Linda are walking me, and i hugs this amazing couple that from invading my boat seat became such good friends. who's imagine that a month later we'd meet again in Puerto Rico?

And this was it. I did vacation. And Loved it.

Planning my next vacation, it'll be all around packing, cleaning, unpacking, goodwilling a lot of extra stuff i could well do without. and a new address. yes, my next vacation is a moving vacation.

]]> http://kbooks.wordpress.com/B000OVLK22 Sat, 07 Jun 2008 20:41:56 +0000 kbooks http://kbooks.wordpress.com/B000OVLK22

Reading a Christopher Moore novel is a little like eating a potato chip--it's hard to stop at just one. And you don't have to look beyond the titles to understand the allure; who could pass up a book called Practical Demonkeeping or Island of the Sequined Love Nun? Each of Moore's tales skewers a particular literary genre. In Coyote Blue he nailed New Age fascination with Native American religion; in Blood-Sucking Fiends: A Love Story he put a new twist on the classic vampire tale. The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove is a companion piece to his first novel, the hilariously twisted horror story Practical Demonkeeping, and readers of that book will recognize the setting, Pine Cove, California. In addition, Moore includes plenty of his patented weird sex, occasional gross-out death, several off-kilter but nonetheless affecting love stories, and some fabulous secondary characters such as Mavis Sand:

Mavis first began augmenting her parts in the fifties, first out of vanity: breasts, eyelashes, hair. Later, as she aged and the concept of maintenance eluded her, she began having parts replaced as they failed, until almost half of her body weight was composed of stainless steel (hips, elbows, shoulders, finger joints, rods fused to vertebrae five through twelve), silicon wafers (hearing aids, pacemaker, insulin pump), advanced polymer resins (cataract replacement lenses, dentures), Kevlar fabric (abdominal wall reinforcement), titanium (knees, ankles), and pork (ventricular heart valve).

In a nutshell, the plot revolves around a gigantic prehistoric lizard whose slumber deep beneath the ocean surface is interrupted by a radioactive leak from a nearby power plant. At the same time, a woman in Pine Cove hangs herself; the local psychiatrist (who has been prescribing antidepressants to everyone in town with gay abandon) decides the suicide was her fault and yanks everyone's medication; and an elderly black blues singer named Catfish Jefferson arrives to perform at the Head of the Slug saloon. Into this already strange brew mix one schizoid former B-movie starlet, a pot-head town constable, a bereaved local artist, a biologist tracking anomalous behavior in rats, a crooked sheriff, and a pharmacist with a bizarre sexual fixation on sea mammals, and you have a recipe for the kind of madness Moore does so well. --Alix Wilber

The town psychiatrist has decided to switch everybody in Pine Cove, California, from their normal antidepressants to placebos, so naturally -- well, to be accurate, artificially -- business is booming at the local blues bar. Trouble is, those lonely slide-guitar notes have also attracted a colossal sea beast named Steve with, shall we say, a thing for explosive oil tanker trucks. Suddenly, morose Pine Cove turns libidinous and is hit by a mysterious crime wave, and a beleaguered constable has to fight off his own gonzo appetites to find out what's wrong and what, if anything, to do about it. "

The town psychiatrist has decided to switch everybody in Pine Cove, California, from their normal antidepressants to placebos, so naturally -- well, to be accurate, artificially -- business is booming at the local blues bar. Trouble is, those lonely slide-guitar notes have also attracted a colossal sea beast named Steve with, shall we say, a thing for explosive oil tanker trucks. Suddenly, morose Pine Cove turns libidinous and is hit by a mysterious crime wave, and a beleaguered constable has to fight off his own gonzo appetites to find out what's wrong and what, if anything, to do about it.
"

Order Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove from Amazon for $7.96

Don't have Amazon Kindle? You can always purchase it from here
Or if you prefer to read the Print editions instead, you can get it from here

Other Kindle Books of Interest
Practical Demonkeeping
Island of the Sequined Love Nun
The Stupidest Angel
Lamb
You Suck

Synopsis: Jody never asked to become a vampire. But when she wakes up under an alley Dumpster with a badly burned arm, an aching back, superhuman strength, and a distinctly Nosferatuan thirst, she realizes the decision has been made for her.

Making the transition from the nine-to-five grind to an eternity of nocturnal prowlings is going to take some doing, however, and that's where C. Thomas Flood fits in. A would-be Kerouac from Incontinence, Indiana, Tommy (to his friends) is biding his time night-clerking and frozen-turkey bowling in a San Francisco Safeway. But all that changes when a beautiful undead redhead walks through the door...and proceeds to rock Tommy's life -- and afterlife -- in ways he never thought possible.

I love books about Vampires. It's a given fact that I will pick a book up simply because there is a vampire in it. Naturally when I saw this book on the shelf several years ago I had to get it. And really, how could I resist with a title like Bloodsucking Fiends?

This was my first introduction to Christopher Moore's writing and I don't think I could have chosen a better book to start with. I was laughing quite possibly from the very first sentence.  Moore has a sense of humor and satirical style of writing that work simply wonderful together.

My husband, who doesn't read "vampire books", read the first chapter because he wanted to see what I was laughing about. He's been recommending the book to everyone ever since. And believe me, it's not something he does often.

Even if vampires aren't your cup of tea, I think that this book is quite enjoyable to read.

Moore has been writing since he was 16-years-old and published his first book in 1990. Throughout his entire life, Moore has been surrounded by books and has enjoyed most of the stories that he has read.

“My father, who was a big reader, was a cop, but somehow he managed to read a book a day when I was little,” Moore said. “When I was older and he was a commanding officer, that dropped to a book every two or three days. I guess reading was just a big thing in our house and I liked stories.”

Moore has published ten novels to date, with another one on the way in February 2009. His days are spent writing, goofing off and then writing some more. Moore is definitely a unique author and describes his books as “funny novels with an element of the supernatural.” He finds that the writing process goes much better when he is learning, so he chooses topics that he does not know a lot about in order to keep the writing process going.

“You can’t keep the moment of inspiration for the whole year it takes to write a book, so inspiration comes when you’re researching, often, before you’ve even begun writing, when you’re still learning. That’s one of the reasons I like to pick subjects I don’t know a lot about to write books on. By the time I finish the book, I know a hell of a lot about the subject, and that learning kicks off ideas that make the story,” Moore said.

When researching for Island of the Sequined Love Nun (1997), Moore took a few lessons in how to fly a helicopter, as well as live on an island in Micronesia. And in order to write Lamb (2002), Moore read all of the Gospels and became well versed in the different theologies that he used within that book.

Moore certainly has a different way of storytelling. His ideas are very abstract and out there; take for instance The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove (1999). The story is based around a sea beast named Steve that comes to Pine Cove, California after the entire town has been taken off their anti-depressants. No one could say that that is a plot line that you would typically see in a book.

“I usually just put two things together that haven’t been put together before. Like Lamb, a humorous retelling of the life of Christ.”

Lamb is a fictional retelling of a “forgotten” gospel—the Gospel of Biff, Christ’s best friend. This book is telling the story of those years that are unknown about Christ’s life. You meet Christ and Biff as they are children. As the story progresses you are taken through the process of Christ becoming the messiah, which includes going on a journey for the three wise men that were present at Christ’s birth.

“I had just seen a special on PBS called From Jesus to Christ, where some theologist said, ‘there are thirty years of Christ’s life that aren’t covered in the Gospels.’ I thought, ‘someone should write those years, and since I know nothing about theology or history, I should be that someone,’” Moore said.

One aspect of Moore’s writing that engages readers are the characters that he creates. The characters have so many different levels to which they are that the reader cannot help but be enthralled with who they are. Sometimes the characters are even based on real people.

The storyline, and therefore characters, for The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove were loosely based on Moore’s friends who were on anti-depressants and trying to get off of them. After talking to a psychiatrist, Moore thought this would be a great basis for a story.

“People tend to get very anxious, very depressed, and very horny. I thought, ‘wow, I wish all my friends would just go off their meds at once, so I could take a couple of weeks just to put out emotional fires.’ But then I realized, ‘Oh my God, then they’d all be horny, too. It would be a nightmare.’ So I wondered what would happen if a whole village went off their meds at once. Oh, and their anxiety attracted an ancient predator from the bottom of the sea who came to shore and started eating them.”

Some of the characters that Moore creates for certain stories, also appear in other novels. The Emperor appears in all of the San Francisco novels, Mavis appears in all of the Pine Cove novels, and Catch from Practical Demonkeeping (1992) also makes in appearance in Lamb.

“I bring them back mainly because people, my readers, ask me to. And I think it’s cool when I’m reading [someone else’s] book and that happens,” Moore said. “It’s like running into an old friend. It sort of makes you feel special, like you’re on the inside of the story. I’m all about making people have fun while reading my books.”

Moore is unlike any other author I have ever experienced, both in the way he writes as well as how he treats those who appreciate his writing. He is known for talking time out of his day to answer his own fan mail; he is especially nice while touring and will actually sit there and have a conversation with a fan.

“I am pretty busy, and there are times now that I can’t keep up with my e-mail, but I also think that writing, at its heart, is communication,” Moore said. “And communication is a two-way thing. I don’t want to just sit in a palace and send my hallowed thoughts out to the world. Besides, people have been nice enough to pay money to read something I thought up, the least I can do is help out with a paper now and again.”

If humor is what you look for in a good book, Christopher Moore will surely be an author to check out. His off-the-wall humor may be a little twisted at times, but if you are in need of a good laugh, he will surely be able to help. His books are available at almost anywhere books are sold as well as at Amazon.com.

-Katie

[...] No se trataba solamente de una casualidad histórica: una noche, ya a última hora, cuando había acabado la música y el sake animaba su elocuencia, Sato le había explicado a Minty que se trataba de una alineación filosófica: el jazz era un arte zen, ¿no? La espontaniedad controlada. Como la pintura sumi-e a la tinta, como el haiku, como el tiro con arco, como la esgrima kendo; el jazz no era algo que se planeara, era algo que se hacía. Uno ensayaba, tocaba sus escalas, se aprendía sus fragmentos y luego ponía todos sus conocimientos, toda su preparación, al servicio del instante.

 - Y, en el jazz, cada instante es una crisis -dijo Sato citando a Wynton Marsalis-, y uno pone toda su habilidas en juego para soportar esa crisis. -Como el espadachín, el arquero, el poeta y el pintor: todo está ahí. No hay futuro, ni pasado, solo ese instante y cómo te enfrentes a él. El arte sucede. [...]

Christopher Moore. Un trabajo muy sucio.

I've just finished Joe Hill's "20th Century Ghosts", a compilation of short stories.  It really only had the one ghost story, which had me a little disappointed.  I managed to get over it, though (I'm tough like that) and enjoyed all the stories in this hidden gem of a book.  You may recognize the name Joe Hill by his hit novel "Heart Shaped Box".  If you don't know of it, but enjoy horror/ghost stories, this is definitely a must-have!

I've now started on Dean Koontz's "The Darkest Evening of the Year" which has a funny (ha ha) start to it.  But knowing the avenues Mr. Koontz likes to ride, I'm bracing myself for the creepy.  My tastes seem to be going for the scary and supernatural for the past year at least now.  Usually one will spot me on the subway or train with either a John Connolly or a Neil Gaiman book, biding my time until the next Christopher Moore novel comes out (I have it on authority it's due out later this year, but I will not reveal my source) and then I'll be flush in another few hundred pages.

There's something wonderful about these books...rather, there are a lot of things wonderful about these books.  Not just an escape from the cold cruelty of the real world by envisioning their well-written cruel worlds, but also because they let you believe that the absurd is possible, that other worlds can intertwine with ours without doubt or question, and that the underdog could very well be the bad guy you were rooting for through most of the story.

These guys are a perfect example of what it is to create a whole new world where the rules are yours to make up as you go along.  It's heartening for me as a writer to be able to read these books.  For so long, I was holding myself back from writing what I wanted to because I had put these inane, insane rules on myself of the characters I could write, trying my hardest to make sure they were all likable, unflawed characters (highly unrealistic) for fear if I created a really heartless bastard, I'd get in trouble with someone and my work would never get published.  So many times as a kid, I would hear people on the news talking about burning books (a crime) because of the content.  People burned Harry Potter books because it talked about witchcraft (and the most recent discovery that Albus Dumbledore was gay - I knew it! - had more in an uproar), others wanted to burn classics such as E. B. White's "Charlotte's Web" and George Orwell's "Animal Farm" because the animals talked.  

These books were classics...CLASSICS!!!!  And the reason they were classics was because their lessons stood the test of time.  A child's love for her pig, how animals interact with each other and the telepathy or language of some sort they use to communicate.  This was communication from the writers to us, this was them telling us what was on their mind without actually talking to us face to face.  This was education; books teachers were using to utilize better comprehension skills in their charges.  Children got to use their biggest talents, their imaginations, to play with these stories and learn the morals ingrained in the pages.  And people wanted to burn that!

Sorry for the tangent there...went off course a little bit towards the end.  Okay, where was I before the soapbox creeped under me?  Yes, the guys I listed at the top give me hope and a path to follow while laying down a few of my own bricks while going about my way.  if I'm lucky enough to get published this year, I hope I'll have come up with something you'll like.

What are you reading these days?  How do you like it so far?  Who's next after that?

As we enter the spring, thoughts turn to beaches, sun, sand, warm sun and cannibalism. Ok, perhaps most of us do not think of that last one. But for one member of the Shark People, thoughts have definitely turned to the consumption of human flesh. And his prime roasting candidate is one Tucker Case, a disgraced former private jet pilot with a severely injured penis. Add to the mix a cargo cult, a talking bat, and a transvestite navigator and you have the irreverent, wacky, and combustible mix that is Christopher Moore’s Island of the Sequined Love Nun.

The book follows Case, a private jet pilot for a cosmetics mogul who is felled by his two weaknesses: women and drink in a hilarious, though painful, scene. Cut off by his strict boss, he is rescued by a mysterious job offer flying for a missionary couple who live on a tiny island in the South Pacific. With no other options, he is forced to accept. His journey to the island and what he finds there defy description in this review. Suffice it to say it is not what he was expecting.  It's an island paradise, inhabited by a eccentric doctor, Japanese henchmen, and betel-chewing natives.

Many adjectives are applied to humorous novels: comic or darkly comic, comedic, and so on. I don’t know which of those applies to this book. But it is funny. It is hard not to wonder at the mind that created this insanity. Regardless of Moore’s mental state, I am thankful that he provided me with a few hours of levity. I certainly recommend this as a light read that won’t make you think, but will make you chuckle.

Amazingly Sensitive Rat Whiskers Explained

Check it out HERE

Well I finished reading this book last night and first off let me say, I am not one for morbid, or grossly intense novels, especially about death.  That being said, the book caught my eye because of it's bold and interesting reader reviews, so here I am to leave one of my own.

A Dirty Job, by Christopher Moore was a interesting, hilarious (that had me laughing out loud on a couple of occasions) book about the subject of death.  Without giving too many details out, basically the star of the book is a second hand store shop owner who loses his wife just after giving birth to his daughter and ends up seeing who he thinks is death.  This causes a chain reaction of events that leads to him discovering that he and his daughter were both blessed with the power to see/take souls. Hmmm, funny? Absolutely! The author does such a great job of portraying the troubled, weird and odd characters in a way that is highly endearing, despite their gruesome jobs, and the ending is a interesting twist of surprise. Worth reading for sure, if you are into this genre.  Will I read it again? Probably not, some parts of the book were a little too intense on the fictional death thing and made me feel a bit uncomfortable. But all in all three thumbs up from me to the author for such a bold risk in topic, and to actually adding humor to it!

Walking into the German section of my favourite store (favourite because close to home, rather cheap, huge, big English and Fantasy-SciFi section and a cinema and coffee shop nearby. The only thing that could be better would be if the coffee shop was a Starbucks), I stumble upon huge piles of "Rhett Butler's People". I haven't read it, but frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. The concept alone makes me shudder.
After a risky escape, I find a little safety behind the next pile until I realise it mostly consists of books I either already have (in English, since at least 6 months), am not interested in or T.C. Boyle's "The Inner Circle", which in itself is not bad but it has been published 3 years ago in English, the hardcover version was published 2 years ago and the paperback a few months ago - from hardcover to paperback over 1 and a half years? What happened?
Disappointed I make my retreat - to the safety of English books. Or so I thought. After considering to buy another Christopher Moore novel just because it sounds so hilarious (I still haven't read Lamb - The Gospel According to Biff), I discovered a monstrosity which makes Rhett seem a perfectly sane book: Lost in Austen: Create Your Own Jane Austen Adventure No, that's not a typo. Basically, you are Elizabeth Bennet (Pride and Prejudice) and you have to get Darcy to marry you. You can get points (which you should keep track of on a sheet of paper) for being witty, getting richer and I don't know what. And of course you get to make some decisions which make you go to another page.
The last time I read a book like this was when I was twelve or so and it was a Knickerbocker Gang novel. And then I was already bored.
Honestly, suddenly Jasper Fforde's "First Among Sequels" doesn't seem so fantastical anymore.

"Did he have zits? Did he have crushes? Did he play basketball?" asks Dale Martin, a religious studies professor at Yale University...

Drew Heriot, whose previous credits include "The Secret," a best-selling but controversial self-help DVD that claims "to reveal the most powerful law in the universe," is set to direct, and said the film will show Jesus not only as a young man but as a traveler to the East.

The $20 million film will follow Jesus as he follows the ancient Silk Road, with stops in India, Persia and Egypt among other places. Along the way, Jesus will come to know "the world's greatest seers and sages," and will reunite with the Magi who visited his crib in Bethlehem, say producers of the film...

In a recent interview with the British newspaper The Guardian, Hassnain said Buddhist scrolls mention Jesus' visits, and coins from that time period refer to Jesus. Still others have pointed out that trade routes between East and West were well traveled at the time.

But Jeffrey Siker, chairman of the theology department at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles, said no one particularly buys the idea that Jesus was ever in India.

Martin, from Yale, agrees, calling it "highly, highly unlikely," and said any Buddhist reference to Jesus is simply the result of one tradition pulling from another as "a way to validate itself." Islam, too, makes mention of Jesus in the Quran for the same sorts of reasons, Martin said.

According to Wikipedia--the finest "research" tool in the world-- the book " Aquarian Age Gospel of Jesus, the Christ of the Piscean Age" came to light in 1908 and purports to be ancient and accurate. A certain Levi H. Dowling claimed to have transcribed it from some other purportedlyancient document, the Akashic Records. All of this was part of the popular occult theosophical movement of th elate 1900's, not to mention the rise of interfaith dialogue in that period that was trying to find common ground between the different faiths, if only to combat secularism.

According to Wiki:

The Aquarian Christine Church Universal, Inc.(ACCU). The Aquarian Christines share many common theosophical teachings with the I Am Movement which includes The Saint Germain Foundation and The Church Universal & Triumphant / The Summit Lighthouse. The title is derived from the astrological naming of time periods in terms of constellations; in that system, the Age of Aquarius is approaching.

Of course, visions of the uproar over the Da Vinci Code should be dancing in people's heads as the church historians, other scholars and the faithful debate the folks who give such texts (especially when legitimized by a Hollywood movie) credibility. Doubtlessly there will be more speculation about Vatican coverups, how corrupt church-men usurping power from the "true church" that was far too airy-fairy and generally nice to be sullied with politics, empire and power.

Most curious from my point of view will be the uneasy truce between the secular academics and the devoutly conservative Christians for whom such books would be heresy supreme. Both will be battling the same rival ideas, but for radically different purposes.

This raises a question, though, how can real scholars of religious history introduce people to the credible research that has been going on in these fields? Books like the Aquarian Gospel are religious texts, and deserve to be studied as such, yet they are not ancient books. Their true setting is the late 19th century spiritualist and theosophical movement. The constructed past narrated in documents like these are the production of mythological thinking, and needs to be read as such. The Aquarian Gospel is not a source from which one might learn anything about Jesus. It may well be an interesting source form which to learn about how people a century and more ago created a mystical Jesus to suit themselves.

On a lighter note, overt fiction about the missing years of Jesus is not hard to come by. I highly recommend Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal by Christopher Moore. Outrageously funny and kind of poignant too.