Zero Dark Thirty

Ticked another Best Picture nominee off my list today.  Kathryn Bigelow's, long-awaited by me, Zero Dark Thirty.

Before I get to my review, however, here's a play-by-play of the equally entertaining pre-show.

(Scroll past asterisks if you just can't wait for it.)

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I, par for my reputation, stood in the shortest but slowest line for my ticket and popcorn.  Salted my purchase, hoarded a  sapling's worth of napkins and entered Theater Two, only to discover I had my pick of the completely uninhabited seats.  I chose a non-sticky one on the aisle about mid-deep and settled in.  

Shortly after, I hear two or three younger male voices settle in towards the back.  Five minutes later, hear an usher's voice asking to review ticket stubs.

He peruses the first stub, "Are you at least seventeen?"  I hear a, "No," answered back.  (Since when did teenagers lose their ability to lie?)  "You can't be in here without an adult if you're under the age of seventeen."  This conversation repeats itself twice more and I find myself alone again.  (Strangely enough, I had pulled my ticket as well, but nobody bothered checking it.  Or, my age for that matter.  Hmph!) 

Well, the act of pulling out my stub out led me to realize that the movie was to start at 2:40, not 2:20.  Geezo Petes!  I ventured to the lobby restroom to kill a little time and empty up for the 2.5 hour trip that has now become a 2.83 hour one.  Reentered Theater Two to discover the company of about eight or nine more patrons.

The most vocal of which had parked themselves across the aisle from where I'd left my coat.  A duo of eighty-ish white haired birdies, LOUDLY conversing about who has the better ear doctor.  "No, Gladys.  I go to the one on Inskster and Northwestern.  Don't you know EVERYBODY goes to that one!"  

Gladys: "Well, I have an appointment Wednesday at Dr. Shaeffer's."  

Gladys's friend:  "Everybody goes to my doctor.  My daughter had the Meniere's Disease. She's deaf now in one ear. Completely deaf!  And, Bob wears a hearing aid.  My mother did too.  Not that it runs in the family..."

Gladys: "Well, it DOES run in your family.  You don't hear well either!  So, what does your daughter do with her ear.  Wear a hearing aid?"

Gladys's friend: "No, Gladys!  She is completely deaf!  A hearing aid won't fix that.  You can't fix deaf.  And, YOU have hearing problems too!"

Gladys: "Well, we'll see about that on Wednesday."  (I then silently awarded the prize for Best Ear Doctor to neither's.)

Through the previews Gladys's friend delighted in the appearance of Robert Downey Jr., "Ooh. The Iron Man!"  As the feature begins, "Now, here we go!  This is history, Gladys!  You pay good attention!"  When the film snapped five minutes into it, Gladys got anxious. "What do we do?"  Her friend assured her, "Just sit here.  We'll let the people who got up figure it out.  The worst that will happen is they refund our money."  A mere 60 seconds passed before the movie was up and running again. 

I quickly absorbed into the story and nearly forgot Gladys's presence... but, was reminded once again during a water-boarding scene. "This is true, Gladys!  This really happened! This is what that Dick Cheney was all into..."  Sigh.

Now, onto what you all clicked this link to really read:  My review.

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I had read Mark Owen's No Easy Day last year immediately following its release.  This left me with an insatiable appetite to see the story set to film.

"Mark Owen" being the alias of one of the Seal Team Six members who penned the account of his early military life, leading into his career as a Navy Seal and ultimately into a play-by-play of the Bin Laden assassination. His rigorous training, camaraderie with military brothers, and the gut-wrenching danger of his many famous missions, controversially, all laid out to bare in this unique and riveting memoir.

I couldn't wait to see what Hollywood would do with an action-packed Seal-perspective version of the mission.  

But, in Owen's story there is a female CIA officer.  The one whose tireless work unearthed Public Enemy #1's location.  The one whose entire career was focused solely on this mission.  As I read, I thought to myself, "If they ever make No Easy Day into a movie, boy are they going to glam up this role and give it the Angelina Jolie treatment!"

But, they didn't make the No Easy Day movie.  Enter Kathryn Bigleow, Jessica Chastain and Zero Dark Thirty.  

There's nothing modern Hollywood loves more than a tough-as-nails heroine with a potty mouth that holds its own against any barking man in uniform. They took this character and ran with it.  But, this character isn't necessarily the one whose day-to-day work life you're dying to be a fly on the wall of.

The film wades through two full hours of CIA investigating and red tape before the final half hour of the actual mission.  Yes, this is the female lead's story.  She's not the one climbing mountains, offing bad guys in their sleep and zip-lining out of helicopters day into night, night into day.  She sits at a computer.  She has conference meetings.  She makes phone calls and performs interviews.  As far as what her story has to offer, Bigelow did it well.

By the time fictionalized Seals finally grace the screen, maybe thirty minutes before the movie's end, they come off almost puppy-like.  One Golden Retriever, one Shepherd, one Pit Bull, you name it.  All breeds represented.  Nothing but muscle and machine.  Big, brawny dummies.  Thick as boards, cocky and  licensed to kill.

The details of the military side of the mission and its preparations were just breezed past without care or explanation.  I wanted to start shouting out extra information I learned from the book to help the audience better understand.  "They built an entire replica of the compound for training! Complete with doors that swung in or out the right way", "That's just the perimeter gate they're at!  There's more door explosions to come", "That team was supposed to enter from the roof!",  "That was the courier they just shot!", "They thought the women would be wearing suicide vests. That's why they said that!",  "Nope!  That's just the brother!  Just you wait!", "They pulled DNA from the body too, you know.  Not just digital pics!", etc., etc., etc.

But, alas, Hollywood never did cherish its military as much as it did its spies.

I still think No Easy Day would have been the more interesting take on the assassination.  But, now that this version is out---and has even stolen bits of the book's dialogue---I doubt we'll see that day come.

Kathryn Bigelow is a wonderful director. The film is well-acted (at times, over-acted.)  And, the cinematography brilliantly finds beauty in otherwise unbeautiful locations.  

Is it worthy of its nominations?  Sure.  But, if you're anything like me, you may want to see Zero Dark Thirty first and then read Mark Owen's story to fill in the missing pieces.  You'll save yourself some frustration that way.

As for Gladys and her friend?  I can't tell you what they thought.  The ladies were finally stone silent by the time the credits rolled.  This could be a sign of awe.  Or, confusion.  Or, simply the midst of an elderly person's afternoon nap.

Book Review: Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight

I've never felt more like an over-privileged-unappreciative American than when reading Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight. Hearing of Alexandra Fuller's upbringing in war-torn Rhodesia, violent Zimbabwe and the dictatorship of Malawi will have that effect on you. 

But, only the power of good story-telling can make you feel somehow jealous at the same time.  I didn't have baboons, leopards, impala and kudus running around my back yard growing up!  I wasn't free to ride a motorcycle around town, under aged!  I didn't get to keep every dog that followed me home and go horse-back riding every single day!  I didn't get to be poor, yet have servants anyhow!

Then again, I didn't have to fear cobras in the cellar, scorpions under the bed, droughts that impede even toilet use, oppressive heat (worse than a Michigan summer!), malaria replacing my winter's flu and your every day terrorists beating down the front door.

No, a drive through my home town didn't require the flaunting of an Uzi as a preventative to being tagged "fair game".  Bribes didn't have to be exchanged at the border, simply to get to school.  Pedophilic neighbors weren't an oversight.  I couldn't be poor, but with servants, simply because of the color of my skin.  And, I never knew of so much death.

Her story opens like this:

Mum says, "Don't come creeping into our room at night."

They sleep with loaded guns beside them on the bedside rugs.  She says, "Don't startle us when we're sleeping."

"Why not?"

"We might shoot you."

"Oh."

"By mistake."

"Okay."  As it is, there seems a good enough chance of getting shot on purpose.  "Okay.  I won't."

Alexandra (or, Bobo, as you'll come to know her) wasn't raised by banshees.  She was raised by white Africans.  Blatant in their racism.  Undying in their "cause".  Stubborn of their rights.  Regardless of the civil war they were entrenched in and the every day dangers that surrounded them and their children.  Because this is where they stubbornly chose to live.  Even though they were born elsewhere, they weren't leaving!  Until they had to.  They'd then just head to another ranch or farm...  on to the next (what we Americans would call, "sharecropping") opportunity.  Sometimes crossing into other war-torn African nations, but never really owning much more than their pots, pans and dogs; and never really free.

Telling one's story isn't always subject to "nice and neat".  Someone's story is only real if it's drenched in truth... and, truth she does not squander.  Excuses are never made for ignorance.  But, apologies aren't either.  Her childhood may not sound idyllic, but this is the story of her childhood and she tells it well.

Colorful, descriptive, educational, humorous and painful all at once.  It's a story of adventure, drama, comedy, heartbreak and breakdowns.  Not a tidy life, but a life worth hearing about, a history worth learning and a continent worth catching a deep wide-eyed glimpse of. 

Even though I may have never stepped foot off of my own continent, I now somehow feel I know the taste and smell of Africa.

That's not just story-telling... but, the testament of brilliant story-telling!

Book Review: Then Again, by Diane Keaton

I know, I seem to be on a celebrity memoir kick lately... but, what are you gonna do?  It's too intriguing to peek a glimpse at the famously rich doing ordinary things.  I guess I'm a sucker for the preamble leading up to the "How'd it all happen?", to the "It's finally happened!" to the "What d'ya do now?" 

It's amazing to hear tales of the present tense.  The marquee faces, that seem so familiar, doing extraordinarily low-key things that the rest of the population can all too relate to.  Visiting hospitals and nursing loved ones back to health.  Schlepping kids from Point A to Point B.  Trying and failing, even after wealth.

Diane's story is no different.  Kooky family.  We all have one, right?  Insecurity.  Even while in throes of affairs with Woody Allen, Warren Beatty and Al Pacino.  Every woman hears ya!  Fame that seems to come suddenly.  Career highs and lows.  A (somewhat surprising) eating disorder.  Family loss.  All the usual ingredients of an autobiographical celebrity tome.

Diane's a pretty good writer.  Her voice certainly chirps off of the page, as it does off of the big screen.  But, the unique twist to her story is that she decided to share it.  With her mother's.

Dorothy Hall (yep, her family the inspiration behind The Hall's of Annie Hall notoriety) was a frustrated artist herself.  Once, a beauty pageant queen, basking in the glow of having an audience's approval.  Then deciding to chuck it all in favor of raising her family.  She kept up with her hobbies of photography, collaging and writing throughout motherhood.  Only, her story, no one bothered to read until her passing.

The pages of Then Again, jump back and forth throughout time and between authors.  Switching between Diane's story and her mother's journal entries within each chapter, symbiotically.  As Diane tells us what it was like starring in her first Broadway play, Dorothy explains how much pride she felt in the audience.  As Diane nervously watches the premiere of the movie that will launch her to stardom and later climbs the stairs at the Academy Awards, reaching for her work's prize... Dorothy's account is right there with her.

This isn't a juicy book.  You won't find much dirt here.  But, what you'll find is a mother's love for and devotion to all of her children (even the "normal" ones), and a daughter's last respects. 

It's a sweet read.

Book Review: Born Standing Up, by Steve Martin

I'm a sucker for funny guys.  Especially prematurely gray ones.  So, I guess it goes without saying that I've always had a little soft spot for Steve Martin.

Not The Jerk's Steve Martin. Not, Wild and Crazy Guy-Martin.  Just Steve Martin.  Out of character and being his witty intelligent self.

Fortunately, for me, this is the Steve Martin that penned Born Standing Up.  It's a memoir, but not a birth-to-death kind of memoir.  Subtitled, A Comic's Life, this memoir chronicles Steve's journey of funnydom.  There's a bit of childhood reminisce, but just in laying the groundwork for what makes his funny tick.  Early influences.  Family struggles, that all comics seem to fabricate a protective shell from.  Earliest performances of any and all sorts.  

I treasured the chapter on his working days at Disneyland, being a fellow Disney nut myself.  Steve started at the theme park at the tender age of ten, selling souvenir books.  Reading his narration of weaving through the park, between the legs of full grown visitors, on his daily adventure of earning that two bucks was like seeing my own childhood fantasies realized.  His days were spent all over Disney's land, working hours and non-working alike. The Golden Horseshoe Review, Mr. Merlin's Magic Shop, the lassoing cowboys in Frontierland, every performer unknowingly molding the mind of a budding talent who studied them at their crafts on level that only a future star would invest.  He later worked his way on up to a stint in the magic shop, where he practiced what he learned in these first and basic steps to performing for an audience.

The book follows his career to Knott's Berry Farm (where he met, dated and "lost it" to... wait for it, wait for it... Stormie Omartian.  Yes, THAT Stormie Omartian!) to San Francisco where he tried to brand his own, somewhat vaudevillian, act of magic + comedy + banjo-playing to the small club scene and then onward and upward to eventual fame and fortune.

His intelligence is realized in the methodical outline he used in pinpointing what it took to make a crowd laugh.  What to say, how to move, where to stand, when to raise an eyebrow, when to twitch a cheek muscle, what color suit to wear, how to deal with hecklers, which crowd likes what, which crowd will follow you out to the lobby and into the street after you thought your performance was through.  All documented, outlined, tweaked and honed, night after night.

This is not a step-by-step guide on how to become a comedian, though.  Just a step-by-step recollection of how one became Steve Martin.

Witty, endearing, heart-felt, laugh out loud funny and so well written that I've come to realize that Mr. Martin is really a writer at heart and only a comedian by trade.  I'll be ready for the next chapter, whenever he decides to pen it.  And, I'll be there in line, with arrow headband on.

Book Review: Stories I Only Tell My Friends, by Rob Lowe

I was never really a much of a Rob Lowe fan during the Brat Pack days.  When I watched The Outsiders I crushed on Matt Dillon and Pony Boy instead.  When I, later on, watched Wayne's World [insert deep confession here] I crushed on Mike Meyers.  I didn't even see most of Rob's big hits because the pretty blue-eyed playboy thing just wasn't the right box office draw for me.

So, when I saw Rob had written a memoir and saw it had even earned rave reviews, I "ehh"ed and kept it on the back burner.  Then I read A Prairie Tale, Melissa Gilbert's life account, including saucy details of their torrid love affair, and I suddenly became curious of the "He Said".

Well turns out he didn't say much... about the couple's romance at least.  In fact, her name is only mentioned twice and only as a timeline device, as in "I was dating Melissa Gilbert at this time."  If you've picked up this book looking for sexual scandal, you've picked up the wrong book.  Some people are into graphic tell-alls, but I actually respected the author for not kissing and telling.  He definitely alludes to his "a different girl, a different night" habits, but is careful not to name names or be seedy or descriptive about it in any way.  Because that's not what the stories he only tells his friends are all about.

The stories he tells his friends, and has now included his reading audience in on, are epic.  In fact, I can see a biopic coming out sometime in his later years.  He has the classic nutty family that's practically a requirement for the best of autobiographical accounts.  A cowboy-seeming dad.  An over-the-cuckoo's-nest mom.  A quack of a doctor stepdad, who brings him and his family from the Midwest out to Malibu.  And, then things are just getting started.

Back home, Rob had already developed a love for community theater.  Being hit over the head, at a young age, with that cosmic hammer---that all thespians seem encounter at some point in life---gave him a drive I wish I had for anything at that age (or any age, for that matter.)  He had already had some insanely coincidental celebrity encounters back in Ohio, while on his quest for learning everything he could about the biz.  So, when lurking around his new California neighborhood, trying to meet friends and find a way to fit in, he was intrigued to come across some kids---looking to be about his age---who were running around town, filming home war and action movies.  These kids?  Oh, just some guys named... Emilio Estevez, Chris and Sean Penn. 

He soon befriends the local guys and works his way into costarring in some of their homemade flicks.  His circle eventually comes to include Charlie Sheen (more interested in becoming a pro-baller at the time), Emilio, the Penns, Holly Robinson and eventually Tom Cruise.

My favorite scenes from the book are the tales of these future Brat-Packers' high school days, running around town (including Rob's first frightening encounter with Martin Sheen, freshly home from a hellish Apocolypse Now shoot), auditioning together and heroically becoming stars together when a chunk of them land parts in Francis Ford Coppola's The Outsiders.  The film, who's the making of, provides even more favorite chapters and the movie set's behind-the-scenes tales could become a tome all their own.

He continues his Hollywood story through sobriety and up unto the present day.  As I was finishing up the last chapters, someone had snuck up beside me and asked what I was reading.  I sheepishly showed her the cover, to which she exclaimed, "Rob Lowe?  I wouldn't think he'd have much to say!" 

To which I replied, "Neither did I."

To Do List

Everyone keeps asking me my plans for after my workplace closes this week.  I'm pretty sure, they mean what are my plans for employment.  I have a to do list.  It just doesn't have much to do with a 401K plan:

1. Get back to blogging more often.
2. Go see at least 1/3 of the the Best Picture Oscar nominees, before the ceremony for once.
3. Clean my desk.
4. Clean my room.
5. Clean my linen closet.
6. Catch up on sleep.
7. Read a pile of books.
8. Attempt to relearn how to use a sewing machine.
9. Attempt to make a quilt. (I was inspired by a Susana Allen Hunter exhibit at the Henry Ford Museum six years ago and never found the time to sit down and get to it.  Love her free-form, pattern-free style!  Haven't forgotten it after all these years.)
10. Attempt to make a Pioneer Woman-inspired owl pillow.
11. Look into opening an Etsy store (if I can manage to pull off goals 8-10. But, no pressure if I can't.)
12. Get back into painting/drawing.
13. Finish that darn Christmas project.
14. Take some new pictures.
15. Visit a museum or two.
16. Get back to the eye doctors and finally get contacts back in my eyeballs.
17. Exercise.  For real this time!
18. Grow out my bangs a half-inch.  (You should see them.  I trimmed them wet this time and they're hideous!)
19. Make a new recipe.
20. Be inspired enough to add to this list.

Don't worry.  Somewhere in the 20's will also be "figure out life" and "get a new job".  I'm still planning on being a contributing member of society.  I just need a fresh head first!

When I Grow Up

I recently found my copy of Dr. Seuss's My Book About Me in the family basement.  My Book About Me was a popular Seuss-illustrated book, that most of us kids in the 1980's owned, in which you filled in the blanks about your life. 

It asked you such questions as how many doors and beds are in your house, how many buttons you own and what sort of noises you are capable of making (complete with checklist containing the options of "rooster", "dog", "cat", etc.  I checked off all of the options and added in "person", "robot", "cow", "duck", "horse" and "weirdo".)

There's a page titled "I Like to Write Stories: Here is one I wrote" accompanied by two lined pages for the child to complete their story.  On the first page I wrote, "MY Book about ME.   My book a bout me.  I ♥ Ricky Schroeder." On the second page I drew a self-portrait in which I'm wearing an orange shirt with the word "Cat" on it, blue jeans and brown shoes.

There are pages to trace your hand and foot on.  A page for favorite foods ("Peanut butter, chicken mcnuggets - only McDonald's, nachos, pizza, popcorn, etc."  All still dietary staples.)  A page devoted to drawing your hair, on which I inexplicably did this to myself:

 (No I didn't have orange hair as a child.  What I apparently did have was a lack of mousy brown crayons.)

There's a page looking into how you handle your anger.  It's titled "Sometimes I Get Mad at Some People" and provides a yes/no checklist.  I checked "yes" to sometimes getting angry and moved on to the section that's a psychoanalyst's dream.  The further options given are "I kicked someone", "I pushed someone", "I hit someone" and "I yanked hair".  I checked "yes" to all of the above, including a "yes" next to the box which states "I'm sorry I did it." (And, yes, my veins do contain Irish blood.)

Then toward the end of the book, is the "When I Grow Up, I Want to Be ________ " section, filled with two pages of helpful suggestions, in case you needed ideas.  I filled in the blank with the word "nothing".

Work was never an appealing concept to me.  I re-completed this book several times over my elementary school years, and eventually came to circle the options "T.V. star", "Frogman", "Writer", "Mother", "Artist", "Dog Trainer", "Millionaire", "Singer", "Cartoonist" and "Yak Trainer".   (I also scribbled out the options "Nun", "Burglar" and "Rabbi" with very deep no. 2 pencil markings.)

Thirty years later, and I still have no answer to that question.  In a week's time I will be joining the ranks of Michigan's unemployed as a result of the company I work for's need to close two of its smaller offices.  I will have seventeen severance-paid weeks to figure out this answer, or to at least find the nerve to reenlist in another soul-snatching job that simply pays the bills (as has been the pattern set in the twenty years since I've graduated high school.)

It's always interesting to look back at the goals you had as a child during these fork-in-the-road moments in life.  The hilarious choice of doing "nothing", certainly still seems appealing, though won't exactly make ends meet.  (Although my ever-ready hopes of the Publisher's Clearinghouse win does seem to fall both under the childhood wish of doing nothing and becoming a millionaire pursuit.  So, let's call that Plan B for now.)

T.V. star and singer should now be the choices scribbled out with deep no. 2 markings.  I have since come to terms with the fact that the good Lord graced me with the singing voice of someone who is simutaneously blowing a train whistle while trying to shoot peas out of their nose.

I'm not sure what the duties of a Frogman or Yak Trainer involve, and am no longer curious, so it's probably safe to scratch those options off of the list as well.  I never had children of my own, which places Mother out of the running.  Allergies that have developed over the years eliminates Dog Trainer. (Although, I'm pretty sure I never wanted to train the dogs, so much as just play with them and scratch behind their ears.)

Which leaves us with Artist, Writer and Cartoonist.  All still hobbies of mine.  Although, I haven't practiced drawing in close to a decade and I remain completely clueless on how to make a living at any of these things.  I'm also one of those fools that likes to keep hobbies as hobbies, as not to tarnish my love for them with deadlines and such.  So, I guess what this all means is that you'll probably hear of me back in another office setting some time within the coming months.

A seventeen-week deadline to figuring life out?  Yuck.  I think I'll try to have a little fun first and leave Dr. Suess with a big ol' "Thanks for nothing!"  Unless, of course, I come across an ad for a hot-tempered, robot-noise-making, peanut butter-eating frogman.  Then I'll know for sure that destiny is calling!

Book Review: Prairie Tale, by Melissa Gilbert

I came across Prairie Tale while I was in the middle of reading The Wilder Life, by Wendy McClure. McClure's book left me so indifferent that I was uninspired to write a review on it, but in its pages it had mention that Half-Pint herself had published a memoir.

I was always a fan of the Little House television series. My family also owned the country blue box-set of paperbacks, although I never cracked one open other than to look at the illustrations. My reading likes, at that age, fell more into Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume, Shel Silverstein territory. If I had access to prairie life via an hour in front of the tube, God bless you Michael Landon, that's how I was going to take it!

Laura was always my favorite character in the series (becoming slightly over-shadowed once her handsome adopted brother was introduced into the show.) I also being the outdoorsy middle-child tomboy in the family, it was easy to relate. So I dove right into this easy read, even as it spun so insanely far from innocent prairie territory.

Prairie Tale certainly covers Melissa Gilbert's chaste and idyllic years growing up on the Little House set. Her home life was a stark contrast to that of the Ingalls, but she still grew up very privileged and loved. The discomfort in your stomach will come at the point were Melissa starts to party a bit, have teenage sex and dabble with cocaine. You'll do the math in your head and realize that this turn of events comes about while Melissa is still playing Laura, albeit grown Laura who becomes married to Almanzo and a mother... But, nonetheless, Laura Ingalls doing cocaine?!

Then the book got really good.

 

I always knew Melissa Gilbert had dated Rob Lowe at some point in the eighties. I just didn't realize how many years that relationship strung on for and how entrenched in the Brat Pack clique Laura Ingalls, eh... Melissa Gilbert actually was. She partied with the Estevez-Sheens (dad, Martin, included), dated Tom Cruise, Scott Baio, Billy Idol (this is not a joke!) and while Rob Lowe was cheating on her with a number of young blonde starlets, she cheated on him with his own buddy John Cusack!

At this point, you start to finally lose the Prairie image, forget about "Laura" and start to get wrapped up in Melissa Gilbert's story. Which is a good and triumphant one. She winds through heartbreak, addiction, motherhood, sobriety, breaks in sobriety, that whole SAG presidency and all of the drama that came with it. She does dish, but somehow in a way that doesn't seem dishy. Just like someone telling her story and deciding to be completely honest about it.

And, she's kinda funny. Who knew!

In the final Acknowledgments section she leaves a list of possible book titles that her friends (including the likes of Tom Hanks) had suggested to her, including:

• Half Pint Goes to Hollywood
• Lights, Cameras, Blackouts
• From Half Pint to Sag-ging Adult
• Nellie's Not a B****, Mary Is

and my personal favorite

• I Never Tripped on That Hill (But My Little Sister Did, Bwaaaaahhh)

It's a good tale.

Resolution

Now that I've made my new year's resolution, I'm finding it harder and harder to blog and update Facebook.  I resolve the same thing almost every year; to be nicer, less judgmental, to block out gossip and to try to say something positive when a conversation turns negative.

This year's difference is that I made this resolution in December, back when I was still lying sick in bed feeling as if death became me, and I found myself in a week-long bartering session with God.  "Why am I not getting better?",  "No one else's illness is lasting this long?",  "Are you trying to teach me something?",  "What did I do?",  "I will be faithful like Job, but do you realize I feel like I'm dying?", "Alright, if you heal me I promise I'll really try to be a nicer person."  And, then I started to heal.

Yeah, so this trade was intended to impact only my personal sphere of human beings... But then, by default, I found that each time a celebrity would go and do something dumb/weird/gross/off-the-wall, at the point that my snark usually kicks in, I'd run to update my FB status and find myself not being able to hit the "Enter" key.  I've literally gotten as far as typing out a hilarious comment (that was sure to get at least ten likes and five LOLs) and then found myself at the mercy of an immediate spiritual twinge that took control of my arm and made be hit the backspace key.  Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

Oh boy.  Celebrities are people too?  I'm screwed.  I even willingly let my People subscription run out!  I even skipped The Soup AND E's Fashion Police this week!  I even felt sorry, when flipping past one of those Kardashian shows, for Kim and her romantic codependency condition!

I guess my resolution has just taken on new life this year, when elevated from just a good thought to an actual promise.

There are a few other things I've learned in the last year that I like to try to carry in to the new one:

• Stress is unavoidable, only the way you choose to handle it is in your control.
• It's okay to watch only comedies if that's all you're in the mood for.  There's no need to force yourself to sit through any form of entertainment that scares you, depresses you, grosses you out, makes you feel weird inside, makes you cry when you're not in the mood for tears, or anything else that seems like a waste of your time or that just isn't your cup of tea.  No matter how many awards it may win one day or how many friendly recommendations you've been given.  This goes for music, books and tv too.  Sorry, American Horror Story!  No offense, Girl with the Dragon Tattoo!
• Fresh air is like nature's vitamin supplement.  Be sure to inhale a recommended amount daily.
• Too many months of glasses wear has officially killed my vanity.  I don't even do my hair every day!  (Yes, I comb my hair everyday.  I just throw it in a ponytail much more often.)  Makeup, also, has become strictly optional.  Not sure if this is a good or bad thing yet.
• I have finally reached the point where I can honestly say, "Okay, I really do own enough clothes."
• I tried some new foods and didn't like them.  The curiosity is over and I never have to eat them again.  At least I tried!
• Go to the doctors while you still have insurance.

I thought the biggest challenge of 2012 was going to be wading through that puddle of job stress.  I'm now beginning to think it might actually be finding ways to make you guys LOL, without compromising my resolution.

Cheers to my trying!  Hang in there with me!

Book Review: A Girl Named Zippy, by Haven Kimmel

You know the chatty kid in your neighborhood?  The one who always seems to catch you at the end of the driveway and always at that precise moment when it's too late to bolt out of there unseen?  The one who from that point on will steadily chew the hearing bits right out of your ears with their nasally comments, incessant opinions and overly-intimate question-asking?  Well, meet Zippy!

A Girl Named Zippy is the first memoir by Haven Kimmel (nickname: Zippy, pen name: Haven Kimmel, actual name: who really knows!), which was followed up by the sequel memoir She Got Up Off the Couch which I had read first, out of order, and reviewed on an earlier post.

It turns out once you walk away from that nosy, overly-chatty neighbor kid and let them age about thirty years, they can become quite delightful story-tellers!  Your ears remaining a safe distance by this time and your eyes doing all the work now by reading their memoir.  You won't need to patiently wait out your escape, because you're finally in control of the amount of listening you're willing to donate and a simple bookmark-placing now signals your easy exit.

I really enjoyed Zippy, but I'm still a little more partial to Couch.  Maybe because I read it first.  Maybe because the sequel delved more into her family of characters, whereas Zippy focused more on her own personal adventures and tales of her hometown and old school friends.  Not sub par by any means, though, and still one of my favorite books I've read this year. 

It's interesting to have a peek inside the mind a childhood EXTRA-extrovert.  Especially being the complete polar opposite of my timid self growing up.  She writes in such a way that it's almost as if she's summoned her childhood voice into her pen, but found a way to shape it into an aged-with-wisdom mold of each chapter.  Silly, whimsical, charming tales, spoken in true hilarity, but wrapped up with a tidy bow and making perfect sense in all its silliness.  I love her voice.  I speak this language!

I can certainly relate to all her tomboy adventures, being an outdoorsy kid myself once upon a time.  (Her adventures always ending up with about a quart more spilt blood than mine, however.)  There's one thing that did make me cringe  a bit though.  Some of the sights she describes having seen growing up in rural Indiana is probably what places this book one bullet point lower on my "top reads" list than its sequel.  Let's just say not all of her neighbors were especially kind to animals.  And, if your stomach curdles too at such tales, you might want to skip the chapter titled "Unexpected Injuries" (beginning on page 61 for fellow paperback readers) and just flip ahead to the next one.  In fact, any mention of Petey Scroggs or his family is your cue to skim ahead until his name disappears.  He taints the fun of the book (and thankfully he moves out of the neighborhood soon after he's mentioned.  His home reoccupied by a good, Christian, animal-loving family.) But, Petey aside, the rest (I promise) is thoroughly enjoyable.

I like it, I love it, I want more of it.  I know Zippy/Haven/Whoever has more tales to tell and it's with that assumption I say "Bring it on!  Memoir three please!"

Book Review: She Got Up Off the Couch, by Haven Kimmel

Another book from my 90% off Borders Going Out of Business stash. I picked it up and put it back down at least twice before deciding it was worth the $1.40 required for its purchase.

Good thing they put the word "Zippy" on the cover.  The name Haven Kimmel didn't ring any bells (beside the brief wondering if she's in any relation to Jimmy) and I wasn't sure the phrase She Got Up Off the Couch sounded very promising.  But, the sight of "Bestselling Author of A Girl Named Zippy" is what kept causing me to add it back into my "yes" pile.  I'd heard of this Zippy before.  I'd read marvelous reviews of this previous book and wondered if it was possible to read the sequel first and still figure out what was going on. 

That answer ended up being "yes".

Haven Kimmel (whom I'm sure is working under pen name) is one of the most brilliantly comical authors I've ever read in my entire life.  This memoir, as well as the---as yet unread by me---A Girl Named Zippy, chronicle her hilarious, somewhat dysfunctional, upbringing in rural Indiana.  The book is written as if being directly beamed from her past adolescent mind.  She's unapologetically goofy, awkward and tomboyish with a charmingly intelligent way of sounding childlike.

This book passed my ultimate litmus test of having something quoteable on each and every page.  To prove this to you ('cause this speaks volumes in comparison to any lousy reveiw I could write) I have randomly opened the book in several places and typed out the first sentence that caught my eye on each page:

• "The couch in the den was the color the crayon people called Flesh..." 
• "Mom leaned toward the windshield as if she could make the car go faster." 
• "Just a glance at persimmons reveals them to be suspicious fruits and yet we ate them constantly." 
• When her dad let a mysterious vagabound camp out in their backyard: "I didn't have much experience with tents, but God knows I wanted some." 
• As she silently protested her teenaged sister's marriage: "I moved and felt like a zombie, only without the flesh-eating joy that seems to drive zombies around neighborhoods like Jehovah's Witnesses." 
• On being forced to attend church camp: "I would not sing Kum-Bye-Ya around the campfire.  I would not play games of tag in the dark, where the boys and girls were allowed to hunt for one another, and find each other, in ways that made my veins run cold." 
• "My sister pulled up...and said she was heading to Grant's department store...and wanted to know if I'd like to ride along.  Grant's meant one thing and one thing only---a frozen cherry Coke, for which I would have compromised any principle---but I had my rats to worry about." 
• When speaking of her favorite song: "Beep Beep (The Little Nash Rambler), by the Playmates. A morality tale about a little car...This song brilliantly gains momentum, and is sung faster and faster right up to the hysterical ending.  Could be sung in the truck so frantically the father in question would sometimes have to stick his head out his open window while praying aloud." 
• "Olive's body had been covered with stretch marks and varicose veins, like a map you turn over and can never make sense of."
• On escorting her mother on her first solo purchase of a used car: "I could only whistle and shake my head as proxy for my dad, who was neither there nor did he know we were."
• "I once overheard Mom refer to a man as someone who Had Accidents for a Living.  I was fairly certain this was my vocation, too, and I wished I could interview the man to figure out how one got paid for what came naturally to me." 
• On her dad's adventures as a volunteer deputy sheriff: "Dad reached around and thrust his hand in the Bad Check Man's mouth...getting severely bitten in the process.  This caused him to wind up in the emergency room, and when he got home he explained the extreme dangerousness of human saliva, which sounded as toxic as hyena spit." 
• On meeting a colleague of her mother's: "Ted was the drama teacher and he made all the plays happen.  He was the cleanest-looking person I'd ever met...and..he had the straightest, whitest teeth on Planet Earth.  They were like a shining white tooth bracelet."

If you chuckled at least six times above, pick up She Got Up Off the Couch today.  It won't change your life, but it just might heighten your reading standards and make you smile.  Alot.  Yes, it is a sequel, but you won't be lost without having read it's predecessor.  By the end you'll wonder what happens to her family next and start praying for a third volume.  And, while you're at it, someone pick me up that Zippy book, stat!  My funny bone is itchin'!

Book Review: My Year With Eleanor

I picked up My Year With Eleanor at a Borders Going Out of Business sale.  90% off!  Yes, at 90% I cleared out most of what was left in the Memoir/Biography section as well.  At that kind of discount, I wasn't being very choosy.  (Killing Willis also landed in my book bag.  Yes, that Willis.)  After reading the premise, I wasn't sure if this was some kind of self-help book in memoir's clothing... but, c'mon!  It was $2.49!

I actually recalled reading reviews on this one, citing that Noelle Hancock (never heard of her) charmingly wrote this account after spotting a random Eleanor Roosevelt quote on a coffee house's chalkboard and documenting the life-changing endeavors that followed.

"Do one thing every day that scares you"

Having just lost her job as a tabloid Internet blogger, Noelle took this challenge quite literally.  She decided to do at least one thing every day for the year leading up to her thirtieth birthday that scared the bejeezers out of her Ivy League-educated turned gossip-for-hire pants.

I, having a mild case of scaredy-pants myself, actually found myself getting nervous on her behalf during some of her more adventurous chapters.  Ms. Hancock has an amusing writing style and definitely does not take herself too seriously, and those are the perfect ingredients for the most fun type of memoirs to read.

Her daily challenges ranged from talking to strangers, to singing karaoke, to a performing a set of stand-up comedy (a dirty filthy set... be forewarned!), to visiting ex-boyfriends, to swimming with sharks, to her standby of running down the apartment hallway naked (if the day's end neared and she realized that she hadn't scared herself yet.)  She conquers her fear of heights, not by simply riding in tall elevators (thank goodness, for the interest of her reading audience) but by taking trapeze lessons, flying a fighter jet and skydiving.

She's careful not to venture into that dreaded self-help territory, but just tells her own story of self-help.  Realizing she was once dare-devilish and fun-loving and noticing that self begin to stifle in the over-achieving-peered Ivy League years, she just longs to find the steps to unburying her old self.  She includes amusing visits with her therapist (therapy = amusing, who knew!), hilarious friends who tagged along on some of her feats, a will-he or won't-he boyfriend (who sounds pretty hot) and her family members who helped her reach the ultimate task of  **SPOILER ALERT** a little mountain that starts with a "K", ends with an "ilimanjaro".

Glancing at her skinny-perky-blonde author's photo in the jacket sleeve might cause one to think, "Oh, this is going to be an airhead's tale."  But, don't judge this book by its cover.  Blonde and pert as she may be, Noelle Hancock is a talented writer and her story is sharp and witty fun.  I graduated from having sweaty palms in anticipation for her early challenges to actually cheering her on and finding impossible to wait to see what came next.  It's a fun ride with little bit of Eleanor Roosevelt history sneakily planted between pages.  You'll feel a little braver by the end and may actually come up with a few new bullet-points for your own bucket list.

A Pain in My Eye!

I'm back!  I've been on about a week hiatus due to a blasted scratch on my friggin' cornea.  Glowing computer screens, not my friend this week. 

In keeping with my last post, I've been on glasses duty during this time (and the coming few days as well.)  Grrrr...  God has taught me humility through all of this, though my nose suffers under the weight of my lenses and my vanity is kinda starting to miss my eye makeup stash.

I have to consult my Facebook page to remember what I missed posting about this week. ('Cause that how we document things these days, right?)

I went to the zoo on Sunday with my brother's kids.  My 14-year-old niece discovered that, yes, she's still afraid on butterflies.  And, peacocks too for that matter.  My nephews each rode a dinosaur for the very first time... on the zoo's brand spankin' new and simply adorable carousel, that is:

I had a lion look me right square in the eye.  Not in a "I'd like to eat you now" way, but more in the sense of, "My instincts tell me I should eat you, but my heart thinks we could be really good friends":

Another lion did this:

We saw the cutest family of chimpanzees this side of the Congo.  The baby was so sweetly content riding his mama like this:

...but the kids soon lost interest because it's not like the chimps were riding around on tricycles while smoking cigars or anything.  Chants of "Can we go now?" I managed to ignore for probably a good twenty minutes.  That's how you get your chimp fix, you see.  By feigning deafness.

The work week brought temps of highs in 70s here in SE Michigan.  That's what people call an "Indian Summer" around these parts.  We should probably start calling it a "Native American Summer" though, to be more p.c.  It's got the same ring.  But, since it doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, we probably won't.

Sunshiny temps plus the banning of my contacts brought up some risky issues.  For one, I don't own a pair of prescription sunglasses. And, since any hint of light causes my damaged eye to water like Niagara, I've been forced to resort to this:

I've always been a fan of layering

It's street legal as far as I can tell!

I won runner-up in a "Pimp Your Ride" (ie. office chair) contest at work, 'cause I work at a place that has such contests:

May the Queen with the thickest glasses rule the land.

I came home drunk on power and managed to make this mess:

Did I do that?

If candy were currency I would also be king.  I managed to collect all my riches, but am still unsure of the candy corn to hair ratio left mingling in their new ziplocked home.

Besides that, I've started watching and loving The New Girl on Fox.  I've come to terms with the fact that Glee is apparently now a drama and no longer a musical comedy.  I finished My Life With Eleanor and started reading (and loving!) She Got Up Off the Couch.  I'm finding Haven Kimmel (Who wants to take bets that that's not her birth name?) thoroughly entertaining and I'm seeing that I'm going to have to quickly purchase A Girl Named Zippy, because it came first and Couch is it's sequel. 

What else... it's been five days since my last post so I guess that means I've entered the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes five more times since then and now we're back up to speed.  (I guess the near-blind can still get a whole lot accomplished in a week!)

Now if you'll excuse me, the queen needs her rest.

Book Review: Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, by Amy Chua

I’d read a lot of reviews about this one that pretty much scared me away from it for awhile. But, then as I was visiting a Borders Going-Out-Of-Business sale, there it sat on the shelf. Staring at me, drawing me nearer with it’s "Additional 20% off" sign. I bit. I’m glad!

If you haven’t heard the premise yet, Tiger Mother was written by Chinese-American Amy Chua, a Professor of Law at Yale University and all around over-achiever. It’s the Chinese way. I can’t get away with saying that, right? Well, I’m just easing you in. I may not pull off throwing around such blatant racial stereotypes, but that’s exactly what this book is about. Comparing the Chinese way of parenting to, what the author refers to as, the “Western” way.

In all the synopsizes I’d read, it was the same shocking comments. That Ms. Chua (and all Chinese parents) do not:

• Compliment their children in public
• Allow their children to attend play-dates or sleepovers
• Allow their children to watch television
• Allow their children to bring home any grade less than an A. (And, yes, an A- is less than an A.)
• Allow their children to choose their own extra-curricular activities
• Allow their children to come in second place in anything they’re participating in. Science fair, spelling bee, musical competitions… Blue ribbons are only accepted.

All of the above are true statements taken from its pages. Thankfully this is not a self-help book, but a memoir of the author trying to raise her daughters (with her Jewish-American husband) adhering strictly to these tenets.

From what I had heard about it, I was worried this book would become a slowly unwinding account of child abuse. But, by the first chapter I was relieved to find “Oh thank goodness! She’s funny!” Being so blunt about why “Chinese is better” and hearing her daughters reactions to these statements kept me in stitches. Like when her younger daughter brought home a school paper graded 100%, but Tiger Mother noticed she did not complete the extra credit problems and scolded her for it. Daughter lies and replies that no one does extra credit. Tiger Mother proclaims that she’s “100% sure that Amy and Junno did the extra credit” (noting to the reader that Amy and Junno are her two Asian classmates.) Daughter defies that “Not only Asian kids do extra credit!”

Yes, she is blunt and confident that the Chinese way is best. Yes, she did return the birthday cards her daughters drew for her because they were hastily and sloppily made. Yes, she and her husband did find teeth marks on the family piano (created by a frustrated child who practiced the instrument for hours a day.) But, she finds the humor in the extremes she often went to and can plausibly reason a lot of this behavior away. She wanted her daughters to meet their full potentials. She was a constant companion during their hours of piano and violin rehearsal, there to correct every note and technique flaw, and two child prodigies were made! It’s hard to knock it at times.

But, this memoir follows her parenting into her children’s teenage years… which, by then, has bred one very rebellious thirteen year old! Tiger Mother does lighten up and if her critics had finished the book to its end, the scary reviews I had read may have left a different impression on me and I might have had the delight of reading this book much sooner.

Her husband and daughters even helped edit and guide the manuscript for this book. Every word was crafted to please all parties involved, so lay off the Tiger Mom because I’m crossing my fingers for a sequel!

Book Review: A Lucky Child, by Thomas Burgenthal

A Lucky Child: A Memoir of Surviving Auschwitz as a Young Boy. It's unimaginable that I would find a book with such a subtitle entertaining. Gripping, suspenseful, heartbreaking... yes. But, entertaining? Surprisingly... yes, that too!

I don't know if I've ever heard a Holocaust survival story told from quite this perspective before. From early childhood affluence, to captivity, to surviving, to thriving! And, oh my goodness! What an amazing account!

I'm trying to figure out how to review this book without giving too much away. I don't want to rob the author of any story that he has already told much better than I could. Let's just say, A Lucky Child will give you a unique peek into a story of survival that exemplifies survival to the nth degree. His survival, part instinct, part happenstance, part genetics, part outside help, and major parts luck. Well, what the author as a decided unbeliever calls "luck", but I would call divine intervention.

As a child he survived several work camps, selections, and even a death march. This is a man who, according to the rules of the Holocaust, should never have become a man. He escaped the gas chambers and the firing squads so many times in his young life that you run out of fingers trying to keep count. Each time, in such an unexpected way that I found myself "whoot"ing (which is the noise that accompanies fist-pumping) out loud with every escape. (I do recall actually throwing a fist in a celebratory pump after one particularly successful chapter.)

The horrors he witnesses are given no more time or detail than required. More interesting are the stories of his day-to-day life, because these memories were burned with his childhood perspective. He recalls secretly learning how to ride a bike at a labor camp. How it feels to make friends under such circumstances. How to find a job that would grant you a bite more food a day. Where to stand to survive a daily count. How much time is the right amount of time to spend in the infirmary. What it's like to be separated from your parents, but how not dwell too much on the question of whether or not you still have parents.

Just as fascinating as his survival throughout the unsurvivable, is the story of his life after liberation. You don't often hear what became of the survivors immediately after freedom is granted. You walk out of the camp and where do you go? You're eleven years old and have been separated from your family. Do you still have a family? If so, what country are they in? You have no citizenship. How do you get there? There is still war. You are still hungry. How do you continue to survive?

He doesn't know how! He tells you what happened to him. Which was such a unusual chain of events that it's hard to believe he met them by just ambling on one day at a time. Ending up wherever life took him. (Which even leads him, at one point, to be informally "adopted" by the Polish army for a stint. With a pet circus pony, by the way.)

By the end, you'll see the unique education he was eventually granted. The special reunions he gets to have enjoyed. The roles and jobs he takes on as an adult. And, you'll just want to meet him one day to prove to yourself that he really is still here. As luck (or God) would have it!

Rolling Stoned: My Book Review of Life, by Keith Richards

Who knew Keith Richards was so coherent? That thought ran through my mind over and over again while plowing through his memoir. It wasn’t until about half-way through that I noticed the title page, “Life, by Keith Richards. With James Fox.” Aha!

Still! These 547 pages account not for Mr. Fox’s memories, but Keith’s. As if in defense of any preconceived notions, he’s even inscribed on the inside jacket sleeve, “This is the Life. Believe it or not I haven’t forgotten any of it." And the amount of detail remembered is quite astounding, considering...

It’s one thing to have a good sense of recall. It’s a whole ‘nother wonderful thing when your recall includes the most colorful, dramatic, inspiring, often hilarious events of a very full life. A jammed-packed life. As, he explains in the opening passage of the second chapter, “For many years I slept, on average, twice a week. This means that I have been conscious for at least three lifetimes.” Maybe that’s his secret!

It’s easy to assume, when dealing with such a character, that over time one has created just that. A character. (Like a fellow band-mate may or may not be accused of doing so somewhere within these pages.) It’s disappointing when a legend can’t live up to his own myth. But, even when reading the early chapters of this book, it’s very clear that the Keith Richards we all know and love, is the same Keith Richards that has always been. I enjoyed reading about his eccentric childhood and almost mourned its loss as he, and his band, began to grow up throughout these pages. The first part of his life was story enough… I wasn’t sure I was ready for the debauchery I knew was yet to come!

When thinking of a rock guitarist, it’s tempting to suggest that it all started with three chords, a pair of torn jeans and a very loud amp. I was impressed to learn the musical background of his (slightly screwball) family. His chance to finally take a go at that guitar his grandpa Gus seemed to leave teasingly atop the piano to taunt him on visits. His early (and eternal) love for good ol’ Chicago blues. The fact that The Stones was actually created as a blues band! His passion and hunger for the instrument he came to master. The drive to never know enough, but constantly seek new tips and tutelage from any performer that came his way with a new trick in the bag. Getting his chance to learn from legends and eventually even getting to teach other legends the tricks of his trade.

Great tips for guitar players also included. If you’ve ever had trouble trying to get “Brown Sugar”, “Honky Tonk Women”, “Start Me Up” or “Satisfaction” to sound just right when strumming around the house, here’s his secret: Pop off the bottom E-string and open tune. A trick he figured out listening to old acoustic blues and slide guitarists. (I haven’t had my guitar out in awhile and my playing skills are rusty, but here’s more info if you’re itching to give it a go: http://www.guitarplayer.com/article/keith-richards/mar-05/556) This trick Keith used to blow audiences away in the late 60’s with his “new” sound. He even recalls Ike Turner dragging him to his dressing room one night, after Ike’s demanding, “Show me that five-string s***!” 45-minutes later Ike had it down and it was used all over his next album.

You'll also learn: 1. The unique relationship between The Beatles and The Stones (They weren't quite the competitors you'd think.) 2. The unique relationship between Keith and Mick. Yes, the truth comes out! Feuds and all! 3. How the Altamont concert looked through his eyes. 4. Why pharamaceutical coke is healthier than street grade. (Just go with him on this one...) 5. How to win a knife fight. 6. When to pull out the pistol. And more!

I don’t want to give too much away. But, yes, you'll find all the sex, drugs, arrests, tragedies, squabbles with band-mates and nine-lives you'd expect in his story. His flaws he chooses to lay bare. His excesses he doesn’t promote, yet doesn’t exactly repent for either. Every rumor you’ve ever heard is either squashed or verified. In the end you'll see him as a poet, a romantic, a pipsqueak, a musical genius, a candidate for anger-management, a brother for life to those who've earned it and the classic-rocker-you'd-be-most-delighted-to-share-a-long-flight-with (What? You don't have that top-ten list?!) And, you’ll end up really really hoping his tale will become the next big Hollywood biopic. (Starring Johnny Depp or Christian Bale… just a suggestion.)

Don’t look for this book at my next garage sale. I will be keeping it and I will be reading it again. Go out and get your own!

Mark Twain is Full of Himself: The Autobiography of Mark Twain Book Review

Mark Twain is full of himself.

In reading his century-awaited autobiography over the last few months, that is the quickest and most reoccurring analysis I have come to.

Mr. Twain was a proud man. Very proud of his own accomplishments, talents, opinions, business savvy, connections and, seemingly, his temper as well. He is also a merciless name-dropper. I’ve never seen so much effort put into dropping names that has had the most unimpressive effect (given the removal of a century between the impresser and his audience.)

Don’t let that distract you from picking this one up though! Mark Twain is full of himself. But, in the most blatant yet endearing way.

He has an effective way of convincing you that he was constantly surrounded by people less intelligent than he. People who needed his opinion thrust on them in every matter of their lives. People who surely would have come to utter ruin if they had not crossed his path. And, THESE were his friends. Reading about his enemies is where it gets really entertaining!

Twain’s saving grace is, no matter how many paragraphs are dedicated to knocking his chums down a notch or two, they are always book ended by a gracious statements of, “Oh well. He was a kind man and I enjoyed his company.” And, he must have too, because he continues to keep their company and they become reoccurring characters throughout his story. It’s who Twain was. You soon come to accept it and read on.

His memoir feels part like homework, part letter-from-home and, perhaps, part tabloid fodder (if we could only figure out who these littered names belong to!)

Given its thickness, it’s tempting to want to bypass any chapter that starts off slow. I almost did this on several occasion but, upon sticking with it, came across something wonderfully delightful in boredom’s wake. If you are going to skim, do it only paragraphs at a time rather than in entire chapters. Whether you become lost on the people, places or language of the time, Twain will always bring you back with a overly-descriptive gem that suddenly absorbs you into that setting where you can finally picture yourself there.

Skipping a chapter may also cause you to miss something you’ve been anticipating. Since much of it is taken from dictations, these chapters wind and weave and suddenly become something other than what they started out to be. Many passages, paragraphs in, have him suddenly realizing that a tale---one he had already perfectly drawn you into the scenery of---was being recited from the wrong memory.  "No. Wait, now… It wasn’t such-and-such at wherever, it was such-and-who and over here that this happened. And, maybe a decade later..."  And, so he begins to delicately paint a brand new picture of the same story.

Not my favorite reading style, but it’s what he insisted on. You become as patient as you would be with a beloved grandparent who speaks in much the same manner. Those cases where respect and adoration restrain you from saying, “C’mon! Quick circling the block and cut to the chase!” And, since the book also keeps no chronological order, skipping ahead will lead you nowhere expected.

I enjoyed the essay-styled chapters myself. Especially ones written about his family and his childhood. It's a sweet change of pace when he speaks of his family. They seem to earn only pride and reverence from his pen... and I love that! These were the gems I sought out.  

I’m only about 70% through it. But, I’m sure I’ve gathered enough information to produce my review. Hopefully, making the remaining 30% feel less like homework and more like sitting at the foot of Grandpa’s rocker. We’ll see!