Review: The Deceived

The Deceived
The Deceived by Brett Battles
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I’m on vacation in Kauai, rented cottage, one of those cute little places complete with a fat stack of hard-back mysteries. The usual suspects: Block, LeCarre, Grisham, Cruz Smith. I choose The Deceived because I like the title. A beer, a comfortable chair on the front porch, and I’m ready.

I’m only half a page in when it starts feeling familiar. I’ve never been to Kauai, and when I was in Honolulu the only other time I’ve been to Hawaii, I read sci-fi in an air-conditioned Hyatt. So why am I getting deja-vu?

It’s beautiful here, by the way, in case you were wondering. Peaceful. Just like people say, but then you can’ always trust people, can you? I guess you can’t even trust me. But I’m getting off the subject.

I push the feeling away and keep reading. Nothing new in this one. Bad-guy anti-hero type chasing down leads and committing thrilling acts of daring-do. A mystery and spy novel in one. Great vacation reading.

About halfway through I figure it out– not the plot, but my feeling of deja-vu. I’ve read Brett Battles before, and this character. There’s a prequel to The Deceived, called The Cleaner. A few years ago I had the sample on my e-reader, and although it was interesting, it wasn’t as compelling as at least one of the other half-dozen samples I was evaluating, so I never got back to it.

But now I will. And that’s my review. The Deceived is a sequel, and good enough to stand on it’s own– there are a few references to the first book, and I know how it will end now, more or less. But Battle’s pacing, and his character Quinn, are interesting enough that I want to read more.

That’s seems like praise, to me. And I’ve got four days of vacation left- more than enough time.

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Review: Inferno

Inferno
Inferno by Dan Brown
My rating: 1 of 5 stars

Dan Brown’s Inferno is not the worst book I’ve ever read, nor do I want Dan Brown to stop writing. He can go on putting “words” on “pages” and get paid millions, that’s fine. I’ll probably even read them. I can’t help myself. It’s like eating food I don’t like when I’m already full—some kind of deep self-loathing compels me.

So take this review with a grain of salt, for I, like so many others, went into Inferno expecting it to be bad. Wish fulfilled. Nevertheless, this time I decided to “admit” that for all of his poor sentence craft, flat characters, and documentary-style over-explaining, at least he writes a mean plot. Right? Nope, not even that, this time.

If you’ve read his other novels, there’s nothing new here. This is Angels and Demons set in Florence. This is The DaVinci Code about Dante. This is The Lost Symbol for The Overpopulation Problem. Same old same old: short time span, bewildered geniuses solving “puzzles” in the nick of time, disfigured villains, architecture-packed backdrops. I guess that’s good news for people who love Dan Brown’s stuff.

Although, this time, there’s really no point it. The “puzzles” are arbitrary, ham-handed. The plot “twists” are so contrived I was wincing and laughing out loud at the same time. The characters spend a few days running around Keystone-cops style, and in the end (VAGUE SPOILER ALERT) it’s for nothing. Nothing at all. Time utterly wasted.

Maybe that’s Dan Brown’s genius. Readers, too, will spend a few days getting to the end and will have wasted their time. Then again, you could say that about any novel, even good ones, right? The angst of the idle class, wasting our time reading books when there’s a world out there to explore. You know, the one Dan Brown gushes over in pandering detail, all those paintings and sculptures and churches he describes.

So go ahead, read Inferno, give Dan Brown more money. He doesn’t need it, but then if we didn’t pay, the publishers would stop giving is more. So it’s our own fault. Brown’s not the problem—it his readers, people like me, who are the problem. Oh well. I wonder what’s on TV tonight?

Just joking. I know exactly what’s on TV tonight.

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Flaubert’s Parrot– review on Goodreads

Flaubert's ParrotFlaubert’s Parrot by Julian Barnes

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

A cousin wanted me to read A Sense of An Ending and so I did and I liked it. Read my review of that, if you like, and when you find this review for Flaubert’s Parrot wanting, apply the other review to this one. They’re much the same. The books I mean, which should reveal for you how woefully unprepared I was for this one.

I wanted to read something good and since Sense won awards and I liked it, and since I’d seen Flaubert’s Parrot in one place or another for several years, I jumped right in. This book was way over my head. I’ve never read Flaubert. I have no idea if the narrator’s treatment of the man’s life and works is accurate or flattering or fictional or even farcical. I’m a fan of “fictional non-fiction” and so the best I could do was assume Barnes had made the whole thing up and that I was along for the ride.

But if he did, then that fiction stands in counterpoint to the truth, and that’s a layer I missed. If he didn’t, then I missed that layer too, and as he spends more than a few lines castigating critics, the irony went right over my head.

Three stars not because the book was bad in any sense or should be considered a lesser work. Three stars because that was the best that I could enjoy it due to my terrible ignorance. But at least three stars because Barnes is a master with the sentence, and I think he’s earned the right to recognize his gift and praise himself for it. “The correct word, the true phrase, the perfect sentence are always ‘out there,’ somewhere; the writer’s task is to locate them by whatever means he can.” Maybe you say he’s not praising himself. But that sentence itself follows “Style is a function of theme. Style is not imposed on subject-matter, but arises from it. Style is truth to thought.” And this in a book which is a about a man looking into Flaubert’s life, including in it lists and a “dictionary” and timelines and slapping on a coda about how his wife cheated on him.

The narrator’s wife, not Flaubert’s. Flaubert was never married. According to the narrator. I don’t know if Barnes is or was married, and like the narrator of Flaubert’s Parrot, and like Flaubert himself, I don’t know if knowing that sort of thing is even useful.

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Confessions of a Robo-Runner

On my hip, a step counter. Pedometer, for those who like the lingo. Fitbit, to be precise– my brother-in-law-in-law (wife’s sister’s husband) got it because he thought he needed an incentive to move more, but was so demoralized by what it told him, he gave it up. Gave it to my wife, who lost interest after about a week. I’ve been wearing it for several months now. I love how it wirelessly sends info to my computer, and how I get emails telling me I’m only a few thousand steps from my daily goal. Sometimes I get those emails at 9 am after a run.

On my arm, tight on my bicep, a carrier for my phone, if I’m on an outdoor run furhter that will be me, at any moment, more than a 45 minute limp back home. The wife’s rule. She knows I’m too stubborn and proud to ask someone else if I need to borrow a phone to call her and let her know that I wasn’t hit by a car, dear, I just got a bad cramp and I’ll be back later than I expected.

Sometimes I take phone for other reasons– if I’m running to a bar and I want to check-in when I get the with Foursquare, or if Endomodo or Run Keeper are doing some sort of promotional thing, or if I want to play Zombies, Run! (the exclamation mark is in the title).

On my right wrist, either a Sony Smartwatch, or an iPod Nano (5th gen, the old new square one) attached to a watch-like wrist band. The Smartwatch is on if I’m also carrying my phone, as I can use it to control the music plaback, and also check messages that come in while I’m running, without the need to haul the phone itself out. My wife likes to send me texts, such as “where are you?” knowing full well I have no intention of responding. Good times.

The iPod Nano’s got the music on it, of course. I can listen to music on the phone, and will, sometimes, if I’m taking it and the Smartwatch is taking up wrist space. Otherwise, my Nano has a much better selection of music on it. I think I could put more music on my phone, but I am lazy. yes, I carry five or more electronic devices on my body when I run, and I’m calling myself lazy.

The Nano also acts as a back-up Nike+ appprovider, if for some reason the Nike+ GPS watch on my left wrist isn’t working for some reason. But when it is, this is the main record-keeper for the runs. It, like it’s name suggests, has the GPS, and also talks to a pod in my shoe to count steps. It doesn’t talk to the fit bit to count steps, but I wish it would, so they can compare notes. But nevermind that– best of all is the GPS part, because after a run outside, I plug the watch into my PC and get a map of where I ran, just in case, you know, of amnesia or something.

Not every time, but often, also clipped my waist band, a cheap MP3 player, as back up if the Nanos stops working, or if the phone runs out of songs. Music is, more or less, the only reason I run at all. The Nano is old enough that it sometimes decides to shut-down when I get too sweaty, and those jerks at the Apple store say the internal water-detector sticker’s turned red, so no free repair for me. Whatev. I got the cheap MP3 backup.

Strapped around my chest, not every time but more often if I’m runnning in the gym on a treadmill, my heart-rate monitor. This, like the map and the step-count, is pure information that doesn’t really do me much good. Today I ran 5k and my BPM never went above 140 (I could see it on the treadmill display itself, as the strap and the display are compatible, I guess). A few weeks ago I run a 5 miler for three miles my BPM was in the 170s. I’m sure some scientist could tell you what all the means. But my best marathon time is over four hours, and my best half marathon time is under 1:50, so I’m pretty sure nobody cares.

What’s it all for? Who knows. Incentive. I’m a gadget junkie as it is, and it’s fun to have all these geegaws and doodads to play with before, during, and after. I can tell my phone to tell people on Facebook I’m running, and they can send me applause as I go. I can look at the maps I’ve made, look at the elevation, and congratulate myself for losing only a few seconds per mile up a 4% grade. I can change from Flamenco to Surf to Hard Rock if the mood suits and I need an extra push to get over a rough mile of road.

But I’d throw it all away if that was the only way to keep my running socks. Just sayin’.

(also published on The Loop, the user’s blogs at Runner’s World)

Open Letter to a Dear Friend

Note: I am going to post this email to you on my blog.

Hey G. Been meaning to send you an email for a Loooong time now. My excuse was “but it’s HIS turn!” How lame. How very very lame of me to use THAT as an excuse. I mean, when has waiting my turn ever kept me from just blabbering on. Never.

So why now, then, maybe you are asking. Well I had a dream about you last night. I don’t recall exactly what it was. Something about a swimming pool, and your hair was jet black. Doesn’t really matter. Personally, I don’ think dreams have meaning. Now, I don’t begrudge people who DO think dreams have meaning. I just go with the theory that dreams are merely the reflection of short term memories moving into long term memories. And that’s memories on, for want of a better phrase, a microscopic scale. You see a bug, and your brain registers that it was shiny. And then decides that the shininess of bugs would be good to keep around. So it moves that into long term memory while you sleep, and you have a dream where “shiny” and “bug” cascade around other associative memories, and there’s headlights on a Volkswagen beetle sending Morse code to a guy you knew in Junior High.

And if that inspires you to look up the guy on Facebook, so be it. I mean maybe it IS Jungian. Fine. And here’s me writing to you. Saw some picture someone posted on Facebook recently, you in front of a cake covered in candles, guys in the background playing ping pong. Was it your birthday? I am ashamed to admit I don’t know when your birthday is. This is especially bad, since last time I saw you was on/around MY birthday, and you gave me those excellent cookies.

But let’s not wax maudlin about how bad I am as a friend. This email is meant to entertain and inspire you to, if you feel like it, write back. That would be lovely. We miss you like the dickens, and when I say we, it’s not the royal we, it’s the me and the wife and a few others friends who are going to go nameless since I am making this an open letter (and never fear. Unless you explicitly request it, I won’t put any reply you give me on my blog).

Questions: whatcha reading these days? How’s the velocipede? How’s your chosen city of dwelling treating you? Going to any of the music festivals on the horizon, the ones I know you’ve been to and enjoyed in the past? Any chance you’ll be up in our neck of the woods soon and we can have you over for adult beverages?

As for me, just so you know, I’m not reading as much as I should, I’ve been hit or miss with my own chosen form of exercise, this city’s rounding the corner on Spring and turning lovely, and the arts will be seeing us seeing King Tut’s exhibit, the Lewis Black play, and The Cabin in the Woods. No plans to hop down to your side of the state line, but I think we should make some, and soon.

At any rate, I hope this finds you well. In all of the those Facebook pictures, you are smiling. This makes us (royal us) extremely pleased, just so you know.

Shall pursue a fine bourbon this weekend and raise it to your health. Hope to hear from you soon!

Jason

The Average American Male — review on Goodreads

The Average American MaleThe Average American Male by Chad Kultgen

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I’m curious about your opinion concerning brilliant people. Can brilliant people see art in places that the rest of us reject? Let’s say some brilliant professor decided to “teach” Twilight, for example. (I have not read that book myself, but I am basing this discussion on the popular opinion that it is not a good book. If you disagree– if you’re brilliant, or if you think we’re all being snobs, then substitute a different book into this discussion). Do you think that he could read in to it, find some theme, some thread, something that shows, through careful explication, some real depth and artistry?

I don’t know. I do believe that most self-named “scholars” do exactly the above, and if they were told that Twilight was actually written by Saul Bellow, they’d find a way to show you how brilliant they were by showing you how brilliant Twilight is. So it’s not a question of whether that happens, its just a question of whether you think beauty really is in the eye of the beholder. Or, is beauty truth and thus truth beauty.

I ask because I read The Average American Male and I found nothing much redeeming about it. Halfway through the book I was so ready to enjoy the main character’s punishment by the hoisting via a petard he’d made himself. A bed he’d built and now must sleep in. But he didn’t, and it’s not that I was dissatisfied, it was just that I didn’t see the point of it all. To call the main character a misogynist is like calling Orson Wells fat. It might be true, but it hardly describes him.

And yet, what else is he, this average American male, except someone who thinks about, has, or prepares to have sex during almost every waking moment. When he’s not getting some or trying to get some he’s either taking matters into his own hands, or thinking about doing so. If this is average, I am ashamed to say I never achieved that average of several ejaculations per day for weeks on end.

The book is set in L.A. and has almost but not quite the same tone as a Bret Easton Ellis in the 90s. The book is mostly about sex and has almost but not quite the same feel as a Nicholson Baker in the 90s. And this is where I’m curious about the whole “brilliant people see art everywhere” thing. I mean, I’m not saying I’m brilliant, I’m just wondering if there’s someone out there who is who can tell me “what you’ve gleaned re: Ellis and Baker is, actually, woefully off the mark, son. Maple-syrup soaked pancakes may have the same name as maple-cured bacon, but they don’t taste anything alike.”

I’m not sure who I could recommend this book too. Maybe people who think they like to read but secretly don’t, who want to hold up a weathered tome and try to defend it and fail but feel like they should at least get credit for trying. You know, people who don’t like being stereotyped but actually probably deserve to be. In other words: average American males.

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I Was Dreaming When I Wrote This, Forgive Me If It Goes Astray

Have you heard that texting is ruining the English language? Well, it’s true. Just like every other small innovation that comes along and gives us a new way to communicate. All those kids with their LOLs and their WTFs (that last one stands for “Why the Face,” by the way. I love you, Phil).

And you’ve heard of sexting, of course. That’s the word “sex” mashed together with “texting.” An example of the degradation of our language, indeed! A word created in this manner, by smooshing two other words together, is called a “portmanteau.” That last word comes to us from the French, who themselves have been ruining the English language since the Norman invasion in 1066. Portmanteau itself was coined in 1871 by Lewis Carroll, which itself, as examples go, a demonstration of how insidious and long-running this ruination exactly has been occurring is. (And if you think that last sentence was horrible, blame the Germans.)

But that’s not what I want to talk about today. I want to talk about sleep-texting. According to an article I read today in the Seattle Times, there are teens and college students texting in their sleep. Sometimes gibberish, sometimes legible sentences. And of course, when they wake up, they don’t remember doing it. I am neither a teen nor a college student, but this has happened to me too:

I got your text last night, asshole.
What?
The one where you said “I’m drunk. Die in a fire.”
Uh, I don’t remember that. I must have been sleep-texting!

According to the article, this could have serious consequences for the sleep-texter, because it could be embarrassing for them. You wouldn’t want to accidentally sleep-text your boss! Because we all know how important it is to keep a good job for a long time when you’re a teen!

It seems we live in a digital world, and we text all the time, and teens and college students don’t get enough sleep anyway, so nearby cell-phones too easily keep them from sleeping well. The automatic part of our brains, the parts where we pick up cell phones and press buttons, wakes us up more easily than the parts of our brains responsible for judgment. (So says the article.) Take that, evolution!

But I think the real issue at hand here is what we’re going to call sleep-texting. Slexting is the obvious choice, and I think we should start getting into the habit of hashtagging the word whenever we text, just so people know what’s going on:

Just ate a truly gigantic marshallow. Now I can’t find my pillow. #slexting.

And if person finds him or herself sleep-sexting, maybe we should call that slepsexting. And if you text someone in your sleep about having sex with them seven times on the stairs while wearing glasses, that would be slepseptstepspecsexting. And what’s great about that is if it really does happen to you, the English language is honestly the least of your worries.

Jason Edwards has never slexted, but has been known to flibberdeetweet on occasion.

Faux Slam, for Turning Forty

(transcript, as it were, of the slam-style poem I read at my Birthday party, as requested)

Voila! In view, a humble vaudevillian clown, trying to get down, here in downtown, south of downtown, for my white friends and my brown, with my nonsense and my non-rhymes, all up in your face in this little space where we’ve gathered from near and far, from Chicago and Fremont and London, our nice little bar, to get good and drunk because I’m funnier inebriated, this belated celebration, itself a negation of the body’s tendency to break down as it ages, pages of life’s novel crumpled as much from rereading as the fell damages of existence, half-hearted resistance against wrinkles and saggings and soar-throated braggings of what we were like when were faster and stronger and foolish and wronger but better looking and taller and nevermind the squalor I’ll clean my room later don’t be a hater I’m as mean as Darth Vader if you get between me and my desires, those unquenchable fires filling my belly with urges and the courage to splurge the few precious seconds we have between screaming lamb and croaking goat on frivolities, ephemera, posing for digital cameras in nightclubs sadistic and pickup lines simplistic begging for lipstick stains on body parts otherwise hidden, forbidden graffiti illustrating a personality masticating the scenery and obscenely estranging any sense of decency since such stupidity should only be reserved for conservative jerks who wouldn’t know a good time if they were wearing rubber pants in a car wash and dancing to the squeaky clean beats of DJ Hell Yes and his rock-steady cleats on life’s AstroTurf with a Nerf gun thrumming foam bullets of fun all up in your grill and when the bill comes due, when I’m supposed to be through, when there’s nothing left to do, at least I can say I’ve got all of you, my friends, my family, father and mother, sister-in-law and brother, and over there my number one lover, the one I take under the covers to discover how awesome it is to be one with another (ya damn right I love her) and the rest of you got to know I love you all too, which is why I say thank-you, for being here, for drinking beer, and even if I’m not funny, I know you love me, so laugh off your rear, or shed a tear, and never fear, I mean never forget, I may be 40, but I ain’t done yet.

Free My People’s Sperm

There’s a guy down in California who’s giving away his sperm, which, as statements go, is sort of like saying there’s a guy over in France eating a baguette. But I’m not even talking about your average one-handed web surfer, I’m talking about a guy who’s literally handing, with his hand, and just his hand, a cup of his DNA to a willing recipient. (I realize, thanks to CSI, that pretty much everything on our bodies has DNA in it. A cup of hair is a cup of DNA, and a lousy Christmas gift, in case you were wondering. But you know what I mean).

And the government doesn’t like it. Or did I just repeat myself? There’s a guy who is providing, free of charge I might add, some assistance to needy individuals, and the government is not at all pleased. Sorry if I sounded a bit libertarian there. I was looking at the Libertarian’s web page (two hand surfing, so don’t worry) to see how many of them had been elected to office. One so far, to Whitewater City Council, in Wisconsin. I guess I got all inspired.

People put an ad on Craigslist, looking for a donor, and this guy replies. Some people play World of Warcraft, some people cruise Craigslist, looking to give away sperm. No one should be judged for their hobbies.

So the sperm askers and the sperm tosser (couldn’t help myself) sign a contract absolving him of any fathering responsibility, and he accepts no payment. Then, when the time is right, he hands them a cup with the goods, and they go off to take care of the rest. I can only assume there are candles involved, a turkey baster of course, and some Barry White. Did you know that the music of Barry White can increase, um, lubrication, so to speak, by up to 200%? It’s true: I read it on Yahoo! Answers.

But the government says he needs to get tested before each donation. You know, for hepatitis and syphilis and possibly rickets. But why? That’s my question. Because there’s a sterile plastic cup involved? Can you imagine the uproar if the government tried to pass a law saying every potential father must get tested before any attempted insemination procedure? Not that it wouldn’t make nightclubs a little different.

Bartender: What’ll you have?”
Guy with popped collar: “A seven and seven for the lady, and for me, a W-5 Intention to Inseminate.”
Bartender: “Long form?”
Guy, glancing at girl: “Hell yeah, bro!”

So far this guy’s got 14 kids already, with 4 more on the way. And yes, in my opinion, that’s creepy. But should the government get to fine him $10,000 a pop (sorry) for each untested donation? Not unless they’re willing to spend the money on free Barry White CDs for every couple in the nation trying to have a baby. Did you know Barry White was the sole cause of the Baby Boom? (Source: Yahoo! Answers)

Hell, Oh World.

I just lost my entire blog.

4 years of posts. Gone.

My fault. Clicked a button I should not have clicked.

Going to go look for a seppuku knife now.