Because it’s already the second week of April (time flies, I had no internet for almost a week, I’ve been working OT, the non-existent dog ate my non-existent homework, blah, blah, blah) and I’m really trying to blog all the books (as in all the books I’ve read this year), let’s just do a ginormous recap for March (without pcitures to make it even easier on me) and call it good.
Catching the Ebb, Bert Bender. So. I know this guy, Bert. He and his wife Judith are good friends (the kind that manage to somehow be connected to everyone you know, or used to know…my ex built their house, my ex’s mom sold them the land, we had dinner with them a few times, they are huge readers, Judith and I bonded over books and travel and would meet for lunch occasionally, they live down the street from my uncle, my uncle and Bert became good friends and go fishing together, we started inviting them to family dinners, we trade books constantly, my mom joined Judith and I for our occasional lunches, now we go to their neighborhood dinner parties, years go by…and then I find out Bert wrote a book). Okay, so I knew Bert wrote a book…he was a college professor and he LOVES Moby-Dick and he’s written scholarly shit about that, and Judith has promised to never tell Bert that I LOATHE Moby-Dick. But then I found out Bert wrote another book about his love for fishing and the time he spent in Alaska teaching and learning to fish, and then all the summers he spent returning to Alaska to fish. And even though I find the thought of reading about fishing to be boring (also, I am not a fan of the taste of fish, so it’s kind of a two strike thing), Bert is anything but, so I read his book. In a day. Yep, a day. And then I totally made his day when I told him that, because that’s the kind of guy he is…super interesting and smart with fabulous stories to tell, but also not the kind of guy to talk about that book he’s written unless you just happen to have read it.
Color, Victoria Finlay. A non-fiction history of Roy G. Biv. It kind of goes like this…the more colorful the colors, the more colorful the stories. Brown and black were ho-hum, things started to heat up with red and orange, by the time we got to blue I realized how crazy she was. Seriously, the stuff she did! However, this isn’t a book that’s gonna stick with me. The colors are already fading (hardy-har-har). Mostly because it seemed like by the end she was trying to cram in all the facts and it turned into unconnected mess.
Washington, Ron Chernow. Really! I finished it!! It only took me 10 months, but I did it. 1000 plus pages (on my nook app) of mostly boring, but I’m still glad I read it. I realized there’s a reason we don’t know much about Washington compared to some (most) of the other presidents. Dude had a thing for being proper and reserved (some might even say he had a stick up his ass). Still, I ended up with a much better understanding of our first president, and I came out of the experience actually liking him (usually the more I read about a historical figure the less I like them). However, I could’ve done without the 999 pages of battle scenes. Also, side note: his mother was a nightmare.
Pet Sematary, Stephen King. #gangstercats!
Duplex, Kathryn Davis. Weird. Not quite on the level of Geek Love, but kinda sorta. Basically, I have no words, in a mostly good sort of way. This is a book about a very, very, very alternate reality. With robots and sorcerers. And humans. I think. It actually got so weird at the end that I completely lost track of what was supposed to be or might have been going on. But the first 2/3 was worth it. Kind of but not really like those Stephen King books that have the freaky shit at the end. Because you get to the end and think “what the fuck?”
Postcards from a Dead Girl, Kirk Farber. Surprisingly good. Wasn’t quite sure in the beginning, but Sid grew on me. If you have this sitting on a shelf, don’t read the back cover, just dive into the book. The descritption made me wary, but once I ignored what I thought I was reading, it just got better and better.
All the Birds, Singing, Evie Wyld. Least favorite book of the year. Possibly the decade. Sad, but true.
In other news, I made the momentous decision to finally call it quits with Don Quixote. I think I made it one third of the way through before I realized that the same thing was happening over and over and over and over again. Also, you all kept asking me “why??” and I finally clued in. I figure I finished Washington, that was enough torture for the year. (Although I might be considering a biography of John Adams…I might need an intervention.)