Cannonball Read #1: Fool, by Christopher Moore

A first note: I don’t know if I would necessarily call this a fair inclusion in the fabulous Cannonball Read over at Pajiba (and being a little rusty at this WordPress fandanglery – and also a little drunk – I’m not going to take the time to figure out how to insert a link, so figure it your own damn self if you don’t already know what I’m talking about) as I’m really crappy at reviews. That’s why I dropped out of college before attaining an english degree; all those goddamned essays and critiques. Jesus christ, I just want to read it! If I like it, I like it. If not, then fuck it! There, I made my point, and saved 4,980 words and untold hours of late-night hair-tearing to boot! Ta da! The birth of modern literary criticism!

Anyway. It’s been a long time since I’ve bloooged, and I really miss it. And some shit is going on in my life right now that requires some sort of recording (to me at least. If not to you, then fuck it! I won’t be offended). And I just read Fool, which hit home in a lot of ways, while also making me Laugh Out Loud on the regular. And the Cannonball Read has been tapping away at the side of my consciousness pretty consistently (for me it’s really just a chance to binge on books as I should rightly be, instead of what I have been doing, which is….ah….nothing…nothing but stewing and drinking and knocking around the house scaring the cats and fretting and worrying and drinking some more and fucking. O, the fucking! Which also scares the cats, but I digress). And so here we are. Ta da! Modern literary criticism in the Blog Age!

Heinous fuckery is afoot! Heinous fuckery most foul!

Let me start on a somewhat legitimate reviewer’s note: I absolutely fucking adore Christopher Moore!!!!!!!!

Now that that’s out of the way.

Fool (much like Lamb, the Gospel According to Biff) shows the true depths of Moore’s talent. I love everything I’ve read by him, but this book puts on display the intellect beyond his pretty, silly word-ery. He’s not just a writer of comedy or weird satire or surrealism. The man honestly knows his literature (or at least knows how to research and fully comprehend it). Reading Fool brought back memories of the finer points of King Lear that had been completely schmeared over in my brain by the drudgery of high school English class. Even though he expressly warns against it in the author’s note, I found myself wanting to revisit not just Lear, but Shakespeare as a whole. Aaaah, literature! Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Not that Fool can be more than very loosely compared to Shakespeare’s play. It’s a total, brazen, bastardized conglomeration of influences, from the works of William himself to Olde English slang to modern American smartassery. Which works, sometimes rather powerfully. Oh, and there’s lots of bonking. Have I said how I love the bonking? Have I said how much I love Christopher Moore?

Anyway, back to myself (hello, Blog Age! How you doin’?) and heinous fuckery most foul. My workplace, which I have mentioned before, and which, over the years has inspired a severe sort of loyalty in my jaded breast, is under fire. Stealthily attacked from within by two seemingly benign interlopers: Interloper #1 wants nothing more than status and prominence, political gain and a nice line on his resume; Interloper #2 spreads her poisonous worms into all parts of the organization, and thus spread thin, wants only contrived martyrdom, scandal, drama, and all the sour, juicy plums that come from that, tidbits to be chewed and spewed and spread, just as long as they don’t directly involve her own life in any way beyond the “oh poor me!” lament.

These two are not directly involved in the day to day operations of the place, thank god. The core of the staff, seven of us in total, are a family. We are each flawed, but stolid, and each of us has no fear broaching perceived bullshit with another, laying it out to the light of day, raking it smooth, and moving on. No drama, no catty whispering behind turned backs. Pretty much exactly what you would expect from thoughtful, responsible human beings (as an aside, I find it hard to believe that I include myself in the “thoughtful, responsible” category, but there we are. Maybe that tells you something about the Interlopers we’re dealing with). And these interlopers, though they know not about what the fuck they speak, are technically our superiors, so we can’t exactly call them on their bullshit. So this intrusion, this distraction from the real mission of the workplace, this pure asinine offense to basic humanity…really pisses me off.

And so, I found myself earlier tonight making comparisons to the heinous fuckery going on in Fool. Honestly, my brain is not geared for plotting and manipulating and twisting (I also love Robert Ludlum, but would have to draw a graph to keep up with all the details. I just read merrily along, la la la la la! and trust it will all come out straight-ish in the end), though at times I would love to devise some cunning little scheme to snag both of these sour motherfuckers in their own stinking shitbomb.

And, *le sigh* Seriously, wan wrist just met glistening forehead right there. A case of pure feminine vapors, or tremors, or fits or something. I am overwrought, overworked, overstimulated, and overdrunk.

I feel most of this isn’t going to make any sense, but whatever. I’m too paranoid to give away too many details of my life that, while presenting a clearer picture to the intrepid reader, could jeopardize my anonymity. And also I’m drunk.

Drunk: What the fuck did I just say?! Jesus christ, pay attention!
Hearing: Classic Rock on the Radio
Drinking: A mimosa in a large fishbowl glass, and…yep, time for a refill. Happy fucking new year!
Smoking: Let us retire to the veranda for a pull upon the Camel’s rump

An interlude out of nowhere

“Because I killed a girl and ate her I was afraid I would never again be able to date.”

Yes, that would be a tragic possibility, wouldn’t it?

This little gem is from Strange Rituals on the History Channel, this particular episode of course dedicated to cannibalism. I haven’t posted anything here in months, but I just had to memorialize the statement somehow.

Things continue to be grand at the SBP, lest anyone was worried.

My sincerest good wishes to you all in the coming new year. Now let’s get shitfaced!

IlovemyjobIlovemyjobIlovemyjob

Some days, the above litany must be repeated for as long as I can keep it up, just to remind myself that I do indeed love my job.

My boss drives me up the wall, but he’s the best boss I’ve ever had. He knows his shit. He knows how to navigate the maze of protocol required in our office in a calm and sensible manner, make snap decisions (that are generally spot on), and when the heat is on, the best parts of him really come out.

My coworkers are equally fantastic. It’s a little bit of an odd arrangement, as there are three in their twenties, and everybody else is 50 or older. Quite a motley assortment of varying personalities and quirks and idiosyncrasies, but we make it work. We make it work in such a fluidly stellar fucking fashion that our organization is now being hailed as an example-of-what-to-do-right on a regional level. (Wooo!)

[As an aside, I feel the need to clarify that this is not any typical office we're working in. No corporate bullshit, no cubicles, no mind-numbing reports and paperwork and brainless drudgery. Though for the sake of my paranoid desire for anonymity, I don't feel I can divulge any more than that. It's a special place, staffed by special people, overseeing the lives of some really, truly special fucking people. If you get my drift.]

And it’s so fucking stressful. Ridiculous horseshit flies from all sides, in every way horseshit could possibly fly. Just when you think you’ve put up an adequate wall of defense, a steaming pile comes catapulting in from overhead. Put up an inpenetrable ceiling, and sewage geysers out of the floorboards. Reinforce the floor and the walls cave in. And so on. And on and on and on.

Which is why I’m a functioning alcoholic.

And also why I regularly lose myself in my happy place, which usually includes something along the lines of:

Ooooo-oooh-ooooohhhh, yes please!

Drunk: I just got home from work. We’ll get there, just hold your goddamned panties on!
Hearing: Jimi Hendrix, and a pussy crying to be let out. Heh heh.
Drinking: Jose Cuervo cleverly disguised in a cute little Patron bottle.
Smoking: Nothing yet.

I swear, I’m not the type…

…not the type to fall for all that schmoopy, girly lovey-dovey horseshit that’s usually peddled toward women. A woman I may be, but I refuse to adhere to the “norm” as far as “femininity” goes. And even then, it’s not so much a refusal, just a natural state of being. I’m not a girly girl.

Having said that, I recently read The Bridges of Madison County. And I loved it. Shoot me if you must, but I fucking loved it. I imagine myself and the Bed Warmer in the same position as Francesca Johnson and Robert Kincaid, and I know that, if given only a four day window of connection in the course of an entire life, it would have been as equally life changing. An instant romantic frenzied passionate permanently-scarring crossing that would be constantly in-mind for both participants, for the rest of our lives.

Which makes me that much more appreciative of my dear Bed Warmer. I realize that my name for him here may seem somewhat dismissive, but I assure you, I feel quite the opposite. My internal/ingrained/I-must-be-a-total-fuck-up-no-matter-what-happens misgivings aside, I love the man and all the growth he has spawned in me in our time together.

And now, an excerpt.

“With her face buried in his neck and her skin against his, she could smell rivers and woodsmoke, could hear steaming trains chuffing out of winter stations in long-ago nighttimes, could see travelers in black robes moving steadily along frozen rivers and through summer meadows, beating their way toward the end of things. The leopard swept over her, again and again and yet again, like a long prairie wind, and rolling beneath him, she rode on that wind like some temple virgin toward the sweet, compliant fires marking the soft curve of oblivion.

“And she murmured, softly, breathlessly, ‘Oh, Robert…Robert…I am losing myself.’”

Neighbors

Previously, I described the virtues of my SBP.

Now let’s explore the downsides.

Directly across from me, there is a family – mother and father I presume, plus a tweenerish boy and a baby which I have never actually seen – and some sketchy hangers-on or possibly roommates? All I know, as the resident neighborhood cat lady/nosy old lady, is that there’s some seriously non-kosher shit going on over there. Most days they can be heard screaming at each other, with the sound of the baby wailing as a pitiful counterbeat.  The only thing that disturbs me more than this is the fact that I’ve heard it so often that I don’t even hear it anymore.

Directly behind them is an apartment complex that is now boarded up and slowly disintegrating into the earth. Not two weeks ago, it was a perfectly normal building, full of college kids and parties and whooping and hollering and all the normal things that go along with this town. And then there was the fire. And then there was the incinerated body found in the bottom floor apartment after the fire was put out. And then there was the revelation that the body (a woman about my age, and – just for that extra dig – heavily pregnant) was dead before the fire. And then there was the investigation that revealed a husband with a history of domestic violence, and the ensuing arrest and drama and scandal. Totally fucked up. I look at this place every day, and as morbid and macabre and just plain disturbed as my thoughts tend to be, I find myself deeply emotionally depressed on a daily basis by the sight of this twisted and burnt building, and the knowledge of what must have occurred inside.

Directly to my right is another duplex containing functional families on both halves. On Saturday, good old Independance Blow Some Shit Up! Day, one of these families celebrated with what must have been several hundred dollars worth of explosives. They were firing them off from the end of their driveway, and the positioning just so happened to be that these high-grade fireworks were exploding directly above my house.

Now don’t get me wrong, I loves me some bright and shiny combustive things. It was awesome having to crane my neck to see these things bursting right over my head. And also novel having to immediately step back under the eaves to avoid the rain of debris that ensued. Sure, sure, they could have set off a firestorm in the tinder-dry ridge out back. My cats and the Bed Warmer and I could have been cooked like turkeys in a silly little counterpoint to what had happened across the street the week before. But it was awesome. Refreshing. Joyful and reckless and a big celebratory FUCK YOU! to the gods of stupid and senseless acts of violence.

Having nothing more to say on the matter, I will close with a sample of what I found on my front step the next morning:

That scorched piece of cardboard reads, in part:

WARNING
SHOOTS FLAMING BALLS

Eeehheeehheeehheee!

Drunk: Not quite.
Hearing: Kashmir.
Drinking: PBR. Because I love it. I recently learned that it is a choice drink of those christing hipsters, but rest assured, the only relationship I have with them is superficially pointing and laughing at their ridiculous fashion choices. Aaah, we were all young and stupid once….
Smoking: The lovely glass pipe on the table upon which my feet are propped is singing my name. “Eeeedwiiiinnnaaaa. Suck me! Taaaaste meeeee!”

Welcome to my Swingin’ Bachelor Pad

I love my house. Well, okay, it’s actually a duplex, but still, it has been my home for the last three months and three days, and I absolutely fucking adore it.

The street I live on is ridiculously overpopulated, duplexes and apartment buildings disguised and described by the property management companies as “townhomes” and “condos” in order to dupe stupid college kids into blowing Daddy’s money. There are so goddamned many of them crammed into such a ridiculously small space, I am sometimes a little disgusted. And then, I spend an afternoon sitting in the sun in my yard, reading a book good enough to make me oblivious to the sounds of fledgling douchebags blowing contrived machismo across the neighborhood with every blast of good ol’ American horsepower from their little-penis-hiding sportscars and jacked-up pick up trucks.

The Swingin’ Bachelor Pad (SBP) owes a lot of its allure to its placement. A wooded ridge in back, a garage in front to block direct sight of the street, and set just far enough into the ridge to remove it from the neighbors on both sides. There are trees out in front and along the sides that are flowering in gorgeous pinks and whites and yellows. Just yesterday I spent several hours digging and rooting and leveling a sorry ass hillside into a very nice garden plot. Flowery colorful shit was planted. There’s a bird feeder and soon will be a hummingbird feeder. The finches and pheasants and robins are now used to my presence, and are comfortable coming to feed on my scattered birdseed while I sit watching them from just a few feet away. This is probably the only time you’ll hear me extolling upon the wonders of flowery, foofy shit.

I absolutely fucking love it.

Sike!

Erm. Okay, so maybe I’m not such a fuck up as I thought.

Let’s give a big old huzzah for incredibly understanding and compassionate (not to mention passionate) men.

O, my dearest Bed Warmer, where hast thou been all my life?

Drunk: The night is young.
Hearing: Classic rock and large-trucked douchebags racing down the street.
Drinking: Vodka and lemonade, with brief visits from my good friend Jose.
Smoking: Just leaving for the Camel’s ass.

Fuck up.

What is the term for someone who has suddenly found herself in the midst of a fantastic fucking relationship with a fantastic fucking man, and then, just like clockwork, manages to blow it straight to hell?

Oh yes, I believe that would be known as “fuck up”. Or, in this case, “perpetual fuck up”.

Yay, me! This is why I should not be allowed to associate with the general population.

Drunk: Obviously not drunk enough if I’m still conscious.
Hearing: The sound of my own horseshit bouncing from ear to ear.
Drinking: Everything in the house.
Smoking: Let us retire to the veranda so that we may chain smoke until dawn.

B is for Beer

“…when brewers combine hops with yeast and grain and water, and allow the mixture to ferment – to rot – it magically produces an elixir so gassy with blue-collar cheer, so regal with glints of gold, so titillating with potential mischief, so triumphantly refreshing, that it seizes the soul and thrusts it toward that ethereal plateau where, to paraphrase Baudelaire, all human whimsies float and merge.”

An excerpt from “B is for Beer” by Tom Robbins.

This book claims to be “a children’s book for grown-ups” and “a grown-up book for children”.

Though I’m only on page 18, I’m pretty goddamned sure that I will be reading this book to my little screamers, should I ever decide to eject such screamers from my pickled womb.

Hooray, beer!!

Drunk: Hell yes! I worked a full (strenuous) nine hour day on my goddamned day off. You’d better bet your wife and house that I’d be drunk right now.
Hearing: The faint sounds of classic rock from the other room.
Drinking: PBR and Jose.
Smoking: Nada. Friggin’ “no smoking inside” landlords.

Praise the lord.

Thank you christnbabyjesus, spring might finally be showing her pretty little head.

The sun is shining, birds are twittering. A chainsaw is whirring and burring somewhere on the ridge out back. My pussy roommates have been taken with spring fever. It’s almost 70 degrees out there, people!

If I see another goddamned snowflake at any point between now and October, I might just be forced to do myself bodily harm.

Drunk: No.
Hearing: Laundry being done by those helpful house gnomes.
Drinking: A deliciously strong pot of Columbian coffee.
Smoking: A Camel’s ass, not five minutes ago.