Last weeks in (non) review

Okay, who are we kidding? I’ve got a list of books stockpiled that I haven’t given my little book report on, and I think we all know there’s no way that I’m going to be able to write pages upon pages about each of them, not to mention that nobody really cares what I think of them anyway! This blog is more for me to rant just for the sake of hearing myself rant, right? Right. And so since I see that I have logged over 52 entries this year, that means I have accomplished my one book per week minimum quota. I know I read more than that because some of those entries were for multiple books, so let’s face it, we’ve confirmed: I’m a speed-reading genius. HA! Speed-skimming book whore is more like it, but hey… a spade by any other name is still a speed-reading book whore. I like myself. I can live with it!

So here is a list of books that I have recently devoured that I am not going to bother blogging in detail about. I’m saving four or five that I found something interesting to talk about, so perhaps we’ll see those entries in the new year. But for now, here’s what I’ve been spending my literary time on:

Bud, Not Buddy- a Newbery winner, very well-written and with major historically accurate gems hidden in the subtext

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory- not a Newbery winner, still well-written, and with major scientifically accurate gems hidden in the subtext

Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator- not even a winner, not really well-written, and with absolutely no historically, scientifically, or even interestingly accurate gems hidden in the subtext. In fact, nothing hidden in the subtext at all… just one stupid pun after another. Whew, that one is always hard to make it through.

Your Heart Belongs to Me- interesting, but not interesting enough for me to completely buy into it. More on this particular author later. Much, much more. Patience, grasshopper.

1776- Ridiculously interesting. However, also ridiculously annoying. I realize that 1776 was a pivotal year in the Revolutionary War, but would it have killed you to actually TELL US HOW IT ENDED? I mean, I know we're not all pausing every afternoon for tea and crumpets. If we don't know how the darn thing ended we're idiots. But still, just because it happened to be December 31 doesn't mean the action stopped. 1777 was sort of important, too... just a thought. Oh, and this author could not have a more monotonous, boring, painfully dry voice. Sheesh. (This was a book on CD.)

Thirteen Moons- I… can’t… even… talk… about… this… one…

Some William Faulkner collection of short stories. Now I know what Flowers for Emily was all about, and can I just say… disturbing?

And that’s my end of year I’m-too-lazy-to-write-about-them list. Aren’t you glad you stopped by? Now I give you fair warning, the next few weeks are going to be ridiculously full of reading but ridiculously short on blogging because I will be busy attempting to detach my face from my new Kindle! (This is what happens when you’re married to a geek- in order to appreciate literature you must appreciate it through some gadget, thus enabling us to have conversations about the UI rather than the subtext. Ah, whatever brings us closer together…)

The Tale of Hawthorne House

This book is seriously cute. It’s part of a series from Susan Wittig Albert, who writes mystery novels for women. I’m not sure what those particular novels entail, as I’ve never read one. I’m very anal when it comes to series (this is all-inclusive to all forms of media and entertainment) and I have this inability to read or watch anything that belongs to a series out of order. And since the very first ever China Bayles mystery has never been in the library when I was there, I’ve never read any of them. But we can talk about my ridiculous anal tendencies later, how about.

This series, The Cottage Tales of Beatrix Potter, is fairly new so I snatch them off those freebie shelves every time I see a new one. It combines mystery and historical fiction. It’s about Beatrix Potter when she was unmarried and writing all of her “little books.” (If you don’t know who Beatrix Potter is, I recommend you stop reading now. The remainder of what I have to say will be completely useless to you.) Beatrix has bought a farm in the English countryside and loves her independent life, the villagers, and the animals that surround her. Every once in a while a handy little mystery arrives in the village for “that Potter woman” to solve.

The reason these books are so fun is that they are written in the style that Beatrix Potter wrote her own books, just with more pages and thicker plot lines. There’s two major ways the author does this: first, she continues to refer back to the reader with secret little winks and nods, making us a co-conspirator in the whole thing. We are nearly omniscient because we see the whole mysterious incident occur from the beginning. To be kind, she saves a teeny little plot twist for the very end just to surprise us. It’s always completely out of the blue, which is nice for those of us who don’t like mysteries because we always figure them out by the end.

The other (and most awesome) way Albert mimics Potter is by including the animals in on the fun. The animals in the village are (of course) the only ones who really know what’s going on, and we listen to their conversations with each other. There’s almost always a secondary mystery going on that is only about the animals, and is most often an elaboration on one of Beatrix’s stories, as in, the “true” story of Jemima Puddle-duck. It’s hilarious, hokey, and adorable.

Reading these books is like watching one of those PG Disney movies. You know what I’m talking about- the kind that stars Tim Allen or John Travolta, doesn’t necessarily have that interesting of a plot, but the few one-liners and funny situations make it enjoyable enough to watch. That’s what I call these Cottage Tales- they are an interesting and funny way to entertain yourself for a while. When you’re done, you’re very glad you’ve spend your time on them. They are, however, much more brainy than those lame Disney movies. The author captured Potter’s literary nuances perfectly and really did her research into her life. Many of the characters are real people who interacted with Beatrix in her younger days, whose attitudes and influences are taken directly from her journals. All in all, totally enjoyable. So next time your family is watching the annoying Disney flick where Danny DeVito gets attacked by porcupines, if you want to feel intellectually superior just read through this book instead. You’ll probably enjoy it.

Esio Trot

This is the next out of the Roald Dahl boxed set that I picked up at Costco… there’s not too much to say. It was adorable and cute and predictable and hilarious and I loved it. Awful darn cute, but very short, so my blog is going to represent that. Go out and read it, it’s fun. It will take you ten minutes. You will feel warm and fuzzy. Warm. Fuzzy. Read it.

The Magic Finger

You know, the more nasty I feel, the more I read. And the more nasty I feel, the less I feel like writing. Oy, I’m having a bad month. I caught some annoying cold again. It’s been a few weeks and it just won’t go away. I’m sick of it. Sick of sick. So there’s a really good chance this very short, very boring blog will be followed by about twelve more really short really boring blogs, all because I’m grumpy and sick. And MarioKart is waiting. But for some reason, I have this weird compulsion to keep logging these silly books… as though anybody cares! It’s like I’m back in elementary school and if I don’t do my book report I might get in trouble and the teacher will tell my mom and I’ll get in bigger trouble and the kids will make fun of me on the playground because for some reason they loved nothing more than to run by me and yell, “Jocelyn missed one on her homework!!!” when I got a less than perfect score, which was really mean because it’s not like I could help that I kept getting perfect scores on everything, it just happened because I seemed to know everything without trying and they didn’t know how to add or spell properly yet and they were just jealous but of course when I was nine I didn’t understand that they were just jealous but figured everybody hated me (which they did) and they thought that I sucked up to the teachers (which I didn’t) and that they only gave me good grades because my mom worked at the school (which definitely wasn’t true but I was afraid might be true) and so all their meanness and teasing and picking on me just made me hate myself and my stupid brain (which apparently was smarter than all the trailer park dunderheads I went to school with) when all I wanted to do was hurry up and graduate so I could be a vet until I figured out that you had to dissect cats in veterinary school and then I just wanted to be a lazy bum, which I am now, so I guess my annoying giant brain served me well and the dunderheads are now doctors treating poor innocent Amish in substandard Midwestern medical centers. Pant, pant.

Okay, that was just an attempt to win the longest sentence contest, let me know how I did. (You know who you are.)

Okay, so anyway, after that rampage, I’ll tell ya about one of the books I read. Um, it was called The Magic Finger. It was adorable. It’s a kids’ book, since I recently came across a gem of a collection at Costco- 14 Roald Dahl books packaged all prettily together and illustrated by Quentin Blake. I have always loved Roald Dahl books, both the crazy and the merely quirky. (Danny, the Champion of the World has always been on my all-time favorite list.) Anyway, The Magic Finger was really funny. It’s one of those books where you never learn the name of the narrator. And absolutely nothing happens to the narrator the entire time. She tells the story of her next-door neighbors, who love to hunt. But they make her mad, so she accidentally shoots her “magic finger” at them and all sorts of mayhem ensues. It’s one of the silliest books I’ve ever read, but I read it in 20 minutes whilst enjoying my Costco ice cream and it made my day completely delightful. The book’s great, read it, and be happy.

And I’m still grumpy, so I’m pretty much done here. Bye-bye-bye.

One Fifth Avenue

I can’t believe it. I’m going to have to do it. I’m going to have to classify yet ANOTHER kind of chick lit. This is getting ridiculous. But I can’t escape it… there’s just no way out of it… here’s Type Eleven, into which category this book very snugly settles:

Type 11: Sex In The City. There is not much to say about this kind of book/movie/tv show/tv network/horrible, horrible horrible piece of literature. This is the kind of thing that any self-respecting woman will not admit to reading. (So if any woman ever admits to reading/watching/liking this stuff, be warned: she is more than likely just as shallow as all the characters in this book/movie/horror show.) I, however, have no self-respect, so I will admit to reading this… sigh… book. Ish. Thing. I will not, of course, admit to liking it. Hated it. However, as outlined earlier, I read everything. So it is no reflection on my character. But for the occasional boy who might happen upon this blog, I’m going to tell you the truth about this particular category. If you meet a girl who admits to “just looooving” the E! network, anything written by Candace Bushnell, or the mall- any mall, mind you- then run. Run like the wind, Bullseye. She will spend $50,000 on a wedding and divorce you in six months when she doesn’t receive a new pair of shoes every day, every hour, on the hour. And not that Payless junk, either. You’re going to have to cough up designer, baby.

Izzy, Willy-Nilly

Cynthia Voigt has always been one of my favorite authors, and this book is one of my favorites. Voigt wrote books for young adults before young adults were really an identified genre. “Young adult” in the literary world basically means “teenager,” which, if you think about it, is one of the biggest misnomers in the history of the world. Teenagers? Adults? HA HA HA HA HA HA HA… but I guess it would be bad form to have a library section named “stupid punks who make our insurance rates go up,” so “Young Adult” it is.

Anyway, these YA books back in the 80s were a varied bunch. Basically any book that had teenagers in it fell into this crazy genre. That meant everything from “Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret” to “Flowers in the Attic.” Oh, my. And I repeat, oh, my. I remember one of my friends reading FITA when we were in junior high and telling me how she could handle it until she realized that the brother and sister in that book were “the same age as Erik and Jozi!!” And YIKES, that was enough to turn her off. (I’m a little appalled that she needed to relate that tripe to real life in order to be turned off by it, but I guess we all have different boundaries.)

So anyway, it’s a little ironic that she related FITA to my life when it’s really Izzy that ended up being a little more applicable. I mean, of course none of us knew that way back when we were reading these YA books. And if I may be inappropriate for a minute, I think it’s slightly (but only slightly, of course) better that a drunk driver ended up impacting Erik and I’s life rather than dirty mattress incest. Um, call me crazy. I believe I’m digressing.

So Izzy goes to a party with a jerky guy who gets drunk and runs her into a tree on the way home. She loses her leg as a result and he gets off scot-free. (Don’t they all?) By the way, this all happens in the first chapter; I’m not spoiling anything. The rest of the book is about how she copes with her loss and her re-entering of society. It’s not a brilliant literary venture or anything, but I have to say that Cynthia Voigt does an amazing job of getting inside the head of a teenager. That’s why I love her writing: she follows their inner workings so astutely that no matter how tortured their thoughts are, it is a joy to read them. And of course Izzy’s thoughts are tortured, as are most of the other kids she writes about, but who cares? Empathy is a gift and it’s very rewarding to feel it through these pages. Highly recommended.

Deception

Oh, I’m sorry. This book was just so boring that I don’t even really have anything to say about it. It was about deception… everybody in the book was acting like they were someone they weren’t, and of course the bad guy was the good guy all along. Sigh. That’s really all I got for ya. It was an ok time killer, but it was so lame I don’t even have the heart to make fun of it.

I do hope that those of you who read this blog do so out of mere boredom and not truly expecting anything of substance. I would probably feel guilty for disappointing you… but surely if you’re actually reading this you know me well enough by this time to expect to be let down. If not… well, consider yourself informed.

One of Those Malibu Nights

Chick Book, Type Ten. What? Don’t know Type Ten? That’s right, you don’t, I just added it! I can’t believe I forgot this classic type of chick book. So here’s Type Ten, or you can go read about it and the rest of the code here.

Type Ten: The Thomas Crown Affair. There’s not much to say about this one except that it’s another one of those “I fooled you!” chick types. Most of the world sees this book/movie and thinks, “Hey, that looks good!” Its advertising is actually geared toward the male persuasion. It appears to have all the good guy parts- action, crime, cops, token hot chick. So guys go see it expecting to see a James Bond type flick, only to discover- zoinks! The hot chick isn’t really a token. Unfortunately, the whole story revolves around her, and this little romp in chickland ends with requited love. Awww. Sorry guys, but your date is happy!

So anyway, just because there’s so much to say about it- just a little bit about this book. It’s been a while since I’ve been to the library, so I forgot a couple things I had learned in my previous library visits. Important things, like which authors to avoid. So I’m wandering through the A’s and I realize that there’s a number of books by this author- Elizabeth Adler- that I haven’t yet read. Wow, I think, she must be really popular and all these books were always off the shelf when I was here the other times. So I pick up the first one I hadn’t yet read.

When I got it home, it took me about 5 pages to remember why I don’t read books by this author. Anybody who creates a main character named Precious Rafferty (and does it with a straight face) is probably going to bore me to death.

Nevertheless, this book was so absolutely horrible, I had to give it a go. Less for the story and more for the grim fascination of the ridiculous grammar, I read on to the bitter end. And it was bitter. Oh, don’t worry, the guy got the girl, of course- this is Type Ten, after all, but it was pure torture to wade my way through the myriad of grammatical and punctuation errors the whole way through. These weren’t those artsy-fartsy errors where they mess up on purpose for effect or narrative color, either. This manuscript just forgot to go to the proofreader.

Some impressive points to consider before heading over to pick up this book:

- I counted 12 grammatical errors in the first 5-page chapter alone.

- That’s not including the use of the word “kinda” on page 3.

- After 27 instances of starting a sentence with a preposition, I stopped counting. (I was on page 27.)

- This book contains a security guard named Lev Orenstein. Nice. (Precious Rafferty was in another book- one that I did not bother to finish because there were not nearly as many amusing mistakes in it.)

- Lest you think I’m making it up, this is a direct quote: “Unmade-up and with her long dark hair all tumbled Mac thought she’d never looked more lovely.” Seven-year-olds can punctuate that sentence. Or this one: “Silk of course.” Oh, wait. A seven-year-old would have a hard time punctuating those, as neither one is a real sentence.

- This one may be grammatically correct, but it’s no less ridiculous: “What could a girl do when her love life was sabotaged by her own Chihuahua?” Ay-yi-yi.

- Oh, nice moment: a watch found on the wrist of a dead body was still ticking. Wow. In this age of quartz, that’s quite a stimulating image.

- Perrin sighs about how terrible his life is: “First my wife disappears. Then my girlfriend.” Poor, poor, pitiful Perrin.

- Another awesome quote: “Shut up, you interfering Mexican slut.” What? As opposed to an ambivalent Mexican slut? An enabling one? A lazy one? What is the most offending kind of Mexican slut, anyway? Seriously, some of these people who author 40 books should have stopped at 39.

- There is a dog named Dog Dear… he is referred to as Dearie.

- Upon the bad guy driving his car off the bridge into the river: “It seemed an appropriate ending for such an evil man.” Well. You sure told ‘em.

- Believe it or not, the first paragraph includes the phrase, “It was just one of those Malibu nights.” Even more unbelievably, the last two lines of the book are: “It was just one of those Malibu nights. But this is where we came in.” You got to admire a book that ends with both a major cliché AND a grammatical error.

So, kudos to Ms. Adler. She has managed to do something that only one other author has ever done: turn me off of her writings forever. I officially boycott her until the end of my days. And I strongly suggest you do the same.

Night Train

It will be hard to talk about this book. So I’ll just talk like this book. That should give a good idea of what non-readers of this one are missing.

I am a read. When I read, that’s what I am, and I know to read makes me a read. No need for qualifiers when read is what we are. Got that? Good. That’s enough, right? You read me? Now we’ll talk about the narrating voice, which is a police.

(By the way, now I’m the narrating voice.)

Read this. I’ll give it to you to read. Maybe after reading you’ll understand. Maybe not. Probably you’ll think I’m a hack and don’t belong a police. Especially since I was set up to be such a typical police, me with my weird masculine name and checkered past and troubled childhood. But I’m the best police, and I’ve got nothing but awesome on me. So I got this case, the one that’s going to change me. Everybody gets this case, so it’s my turn. Maybe I’m just a hack police. I don’t know. I’ll solve this case. It’ll change me. Then I’ll lie about it. I don’t want anybody else to be changed. That’s just me.

Not you either. I’m not telling you. You read all this crap, then you’ll wonder, and you’ll never be changed. Except you’ll be 150 pages older. And I did that to you.

And I only used punctuation half the time. That was fun.

(I’m not the narrating voice anymore.)

So, confused? So was I. And I’m now 150 pages older, and I still don’t know whodunit. But I do know any cop book about a female police detective named Mike is a cliché waiting to happen, and I should have known better.

This Year's Model

Chick book, Type Three.

Even more type three than usual, but what do you expect? It was written by a former supermodel. I can hardly wait to read those books by Pamela Anderson next week...

Get The Code.

Running With Scissors

I’m in a bad mood because my Sunday was just ruined by an innumerable amount of factors. So I decided now would be a good time to blog about this book, because, well, it’s crap. And since I’m in a bad mood, I can really be out there about how I feel about it. Which is, it’s crap. Absolute trash. I have never “read” (listened to) such a waste of literary space. How are these people getting published? How? Why? WHY??!!

I listened to this book knowing that it was a true autobiography of some random author, and no matter how obscure the person, I enjoy reading other people’s stories. So let me just say this. If one word of this book is true, this Mr. Burroughs is one of the most depraved lunatics I’ve ever been in contact with. He was born by depraved lunatics and passed around to be raised by multiple depraved lunatics who encouraged his depraved lunatic lifestyle. This proves my long-held theory: idiots breed idiots. No good can come from stupidity procreating. They should be stopped in their perverse little tracks, and humanity should require licensure for reproducing.

Along with being a very sick freak (I’m so mad today I’m losing my ability to come up with any more creative adjectives, so I’m just going to be getting meaner instead of more clever), this author is also a very bad writer. Very bad. I spent the whole book wondering if there was something wrong with my CD ripper. It jumped from scene to scene and decade to decade seemingly in the middle of paragraphs. I spent the first half of the book thinking that I just wasn’t intellectual enough to appreciate the art form of non-chronological storytelling. Then when I heard “epilogue” at 3:41 of a 10:07 track (track number 31 of 45), I decided that this depraved lunatic was also an idiot. Awesome. I suppose it was a little too much for me to expect this goon who couldn’t figure out which orifice was designed for what to understand that epilogues go at the END of the book, and generally the easiest way to get from point A to point C was by way of B. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for the flashback. But reinventing the alphabet just to make some artsy point isn’t really my thing.

So if you want to read this, go ahead. But it stunk. Terribly. And it’s ridiculously wrong. No dismembered babies or anything… just your every day run of the mill lack of any moral subjectivity whatsoever. You have been warned.

And just because I’m in a bad mood: Just so you know, if you ever tell me that you read this book (after reading this blog), I find you also sick and disgusting. There’s something wrong with you weirdos who seek out this crap. You should wash your mouths (and eyes and ears and probably other parts) out with soap.

Now everybody go away and leave me alone. I’m still in a bad mood.

The Canterbury Tales

I read this book in an attempt to better my repertoire… it’s one of those classics that I just know nothing about. (I can only miss the answer on Jeopardy! so many times before I’ll finally cave and read the book.) So, I read this “new modern English prose translation” of the original Ye Olde English tale.

The premise is this: a big ol’ bunch of people are wandering around the countryside going on some pilgrimage. Some holy pilgrimage, that’s important. Because they’re all very religious and pious, and are on their way to pay homage to the guy who wove the shroud of Turin or something like that. So on the way to their holy whatever, all these people who were strangers but met up because they were on the same road to somewhere, decided to entertain each other by telling each other tales. Everybody had to tell a tale. And everybody did. Nice tales. Really fun tales. Tales, tales, tales.

As religious as these people had to be to be embarking upon this holy journey, they sure seemed to enjoy some bawdy tales. It reminded me of when I go to my Amish family reunions… here we have a group of people joined together, nay, defined by their religion, and for some reason the only punch lines that are really satisfying to them are either about sex or shit. And I know it’s uncharacteristic of me to just toss out the word “shit,” but it’s not casual this time- the joke has to actually be about “shit,” not “manure” or “poop” or “defecatory products.” Maybe “turd.” But you just don’t know funny until you see a sweet little old white-haired Amish lady tell a joke where she gets to end with the word “shit” and giggles guiltily. It sounds like this: “shitee-hee-tee-hee!” Anyway, I’m lingering on that a little too long. And besides, it’s not exactly true. The Amish find farting really funny too.

So anyway, back to The Canterbury Tales and why they reminded me of the Amish. Like I said, these tale-tellers were rough in their subject manner. It seemed to me that at least (if not more than) every other tale was either some sordid story about illicit sex or adultery, or culminated in a hi-laaaaar-ious climax of pooting in the puss. (And for those of you who think I am just being as crude as I possibly can with my language this time, shame on you. Many words have more than one meaning, and you should endeavor to learn them all. I’m not that dirty.)

Don’t believe me? Fine. Let me give you some examples, and at the same time let’s talk about some of that “new modern English prose.” Some of my favorite quotes that illustrate my point:

From page 71: “She thrust her ass out the window. Absalom, knowing no better, kissed it enthusiastically before he realized the trick. He jumped back and thought something was wrong, for he knew very well that a woman has no beard. He felt something rough and hairy and said, ‘Fie, what have I done?’” Fie. Very modern. And classy, I might add.

Luckily Absalom got his, but had to smooch another tush to get it, as on page 73: “So Nicholas quickly raised the window and thrust his ass far out. Then the clerk Absalom said, ‘Speak, sweet bird, I do not know where you are.’ At this Nicholas let fly a fart with a noise as great as a clap of thunder, so that Absalom was almost overcome by the force of it. But he was ready with his hot iron and he smote Nicholas in the middle of his ass.” I think the only thing smote was my mind’s eye for having to picture this lovely scene.

From page 132: “To speak plainly, to be brief, your filthy rhyming is not worth a turd!” Guess that tale-teller should have worked up his pentameter.

From page 195: “But when the sick man felt the friar groping here and there round his hole, he broke wind in the middle of the friar’s hand; there is no nag driving a cart that could have broke wind so loudly.” Nice job. Takes a good man to put a horse to shame.

Same page: “By God’s bones, you have done this on purpose out of spite! You shall regret this fart, if I can arrange it!” Well, that’s a relief. You don’t want someone walking around proud of their toot.

Page 197, the happy conclusion of that particular tale: “Who could make a demonstration of how every man should have an equal share of the sound or odor of a fart?” … “The rumbling of a fart, like every sound, is but the reverberation of air which decreases, little by little. There is no man who can judge, by my faith, if it is equally divided.” Thank goodness we got that figured out.

Whew. One can certainly understand how this book found itself entrenched deep in the annals of literary fame. I mean, how could we as readers NOT honor the book that explored and solved the equation of the physical dissolution of wayward butt eekage? This is truly a classic. I think I’ll read it again.

The Sick List

While I was sick a few weeks ago, I read myself into sleep every night and read a book or two every morning before getting out of bed. I was that lazy. So I don't have the time or patience to chronicle them all, but since I was just re-reading a lot of my childhood faves, here's the list.

Oh, and by the way, currently the ice cream truck is going down the street, and the song it is playing is "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer." I guess that's an improvement over the "Silent Night" that I heard last week, but I really think they should stop letting the overseas programmers pick the tunes. Just my opinion.

The list:

A Taste of Blackberries

Katie and Those Boys

2 Encyclopedia Browns (Dead Eagles and Solves them All)

Who Put That Hair In My Toothbrush?

The Trouble With Tuck (most notable because the girl on the cover looks JUST LIKE ME)

The Search for Grissi

The Cricket in Times Square (absolutely classic, you MUST buy this for your children, you know who you are)

Ghosts Who Went to School

Return to Oz

Hm. The list looked longer when they were stacked up on my desk... I read a few magazines in bed, too. And listened to a book or two on mp3.

Oh, all right. I played Tetris the whole time.

The Yada Yada Prayer Group

I read all seven of these books this summer. I’m not going to take the time to summarize them- that would be silly. I will, however, amend my list of chick book types… because I’ve already found one I forgot. So without further ado, here’s Chick Book Type Nine: Just like… well, Veggietales.

Type 9: Veggietales. Okay. Veggietales is not a chick flick. But it is the only predictable Christian-themed video production I could think of. See, Type Nine is totally different from all the rest of the chick books. It’s called Christian chick lit. It’s a very strange genre. The stories are always different, but equally predictable. The theme is always THE SPIRITUAL JOURNEY. Obstacles that test our little heroes and heroines are always merely blessings in disguise. I’m not calling it unrealistic, but only in Type Nine can a person rob a prayer group at gunpoint and then join said prayer group later after a spontaneous baptism in the lake. Not to mention the trusted aunt to whom our dear little Amish girl has always turned with her problems turns out to be her real mother, praise the Lord and we’re all going to forgive each other for living a lie for 25 years! True loves return from the misunderstood grave, unconverted husbands become holy rollers, and some god-fearing child single-handedly saves a tiny little western town from the beer-guzzling thugs that would drag it down to Satan’s lair. And that’s why this crowd of books is just like Veggietales. Always a different story, but always the same ending: God wins.

Now, I want to make a quick disclaimer here. It sounds like I’m bashing this particular group of books. I’m not. Let’s not forget, first of all, that I’m bashing ALL groups of books geared toward the female mind. And second of all, I appreciate these books for what they are. I understand the Christian industry. And there IS a Christian Industry. All things with a “faith” label on them are victims of the process that is business. That is, things can only be labeled and sold as “Christian” if they’re going to fit the “Christian” mold. So that means stuff like no cussing, no law-breaking (Biblical or otherwise), have a tangible moral, and/or display a Jesus fish somewhere on it. I understand that these authors are working within a very strictly defined set of parameters, and they choose to sacrifice a little bit of quality fiction in order to give a group of women who are sick of reading about sex and shoes something to read. I get it. Good for them! Bring on the wholesome! I don’t look down on these authors or these readers any more than I do any other girlie authors or readers… and for the record, I know I have no rights to make fun of or criticize any author or reader, because 1. I certainly don’t have the guts to become and author, and 2. I read it all anyway!! (But I do make fun of and criticize because, well, it’s fun.)

That being said, I gotta say… these books were pretty fluffy. Sorry, mom. I appreciate very much the fact that they sort of gave some women (who might not have otherwise) the idea to form a prayer group. But they’re pretty unrealistic, not to mention an obvious and direct ripoff of the very popular Ya-Ya Sisterhood series (see Type 2). If there’s one thing I hate, it’s when the Christian Industry sees something that’s making cash as a trend in the real world and then they adopt it for themselves- make it a little more wholesome and suddenly it’s just as good as the original. Well, I disagree. I tend to reward original thought more than blatant attempts at financial gain. And that, my friends, is my biggest gripe about the Christian Industry. It really is only a business after all. That bit about saving souls is great and all, but it doesn’t really make the money. Leave that to the churches. We’ll suck ‘em in with our brightly colored appealing Savior Smiley Face, and then send them over to somebody who will tell them the truth about what it really means to be a Christian. Probably will come as a terrible shock, but… oh, well, they’ve already bought the book. Maybe they’ll go see the movie. And if they don’t like what they see… well, we’ll get ‘em next time. Hey, have you seen our new line of Jesus Jellies? Each bean is a different flavor that was eaten in the Bible. We’ve got fig, wine, unleavened bread, lamb, loaves, fishes…

The Illustrated Bible History

Okay, this book is a little funny. It was printed in 1925, and is basically just an antique version of Bible cliff notes. You know, the entire Bible in 400 pages instead of 2500. It runs through the events of the Bible and hands them over in shorthand and in historical order. After each little story there was a typical “reader style” Q&A session- “What have we learned from Moses’ actions? What did God prove by allowing the magicians to work their magic?” Etc, etc.

The reason I put up with this all the way to the end was because it was fun for me to see the Bible from a different point of view. This was meant to be a handbook to the Catholic Bible. So each story had an explanation of the symbolism within, such as: “This is why Mary’s throne in heaven is above the thrones of the angels and the saints, and next to that of her divine Son.” I have no idea how this very Catholic book got into my very Apostolic grandfather’s collection, but since I’m not too familiar with all that Catholic ritual and symbolism, it was pretty fun for me. That is, it was fun for me until I turned the page and covering up an illustration of the resurrection of Jarius' daughter was this drawing on a scrap of paper:

Jeez!!! It kind of jumped out at me! And it kind of freaked me out! I did NOT like it at all. I don’t know why, but this little alien baby or whatever it is creeped me out to no end. I still can’t look at it without a little shudder.

Added to my list of questions to ask God upon arriving in Heaven (which includes, along with others, “What if we’d dated the first time we met?”, “One more time: drunk drivers- why, again?”, and “Can you teach me the Vulcan Mind Meld?”) is the very pressing: “What on earth was that drawing, who stuck it in there, and jeez, what for?”

But I guess I’ll just have to wait.

The Elson Readers, Book Seven

This book isn’t really any different from the other Elson Readers that I read. It’s so similar, in fact, that I’m officially done picking these up and reading them, no matter how intrigued I am by their genuine antique-ness. (This particular one was printed in 1927, and is in remarkable shape considering. There’s not a single dog-ear in the thing.)

I was pretty much enjoying this one- since it’s Book Seven it’s for seventh graders, so it’s more my intelligence level. You know, reading books meant for first and fourth graders was getting a little old. I can’t handle any of that high school stuff, but seventh grade, hey, that’s my style. Anyway, reading along… there’s not much poetry, so I’m having a good time. Then I realize just how similar all these books were. I’ve read this before. Odd. And not only is the story familiar, but the font is as well. Fabulous. Let me go and check. Yeppers… same story in the fourth grade book. Interesting. I figure it’s a mistake… until it happens again. And again.

What the heck? Do the people who collect these silly stories think that seventh graders are that stupid? Or do they think that fourth graders are that smart?

Or do they think that some strange woman in her 30s will pick up these books, read them, and then complain about them?

I’m going with they didn’t think at all… oh, well. Fun enough, anyway. I am certainly a better person for having read all about Hawthorne’s visit to Niagra Falls.

Twice.

The Myth of You and Me

The Myth of You and Me, by Leah Stewart

Chick book, Type 1.

Get The Code

Holes

I re-read this book in my quest to own all the Newbery Medal winning books. I read it a long, long time ago- before it even won the medal- and really didn't like it. I just hated it. I don't know why. Maybe it was the lizards. Maybe it was the rattlesnake venom nail polish. Maybe it was because I hate sweating, I hate orange, and I hate having stomach cramps. Could be because I don't like westerns, and could be becuase I am not a fan of sneakers. All of those things were in this book, so... oh, and I'm pretty sure the lack of dead rats in the book directly contributed to my initial dislike. But having said that, I liked it a little better this time.

I love Louis Sachar books. They are so silly. The first one I ever read was Sideways Stories from Wayside School, and ever since then I expected each one to be just as crazy and nutty. Well, of course they couldn't all be that insane. But they are all fun in their own way. There's always, always an element that just makes no sense (like ticklish spaghetti) but generally (except for Wayside School) there is a minor point hidden in the pages somewhere. Now, I don't like to be taught things while I'm being entertained, so I'm awfully picky about this. Luckily for Louis, there's no real lesson, just sort of a moral. Rather, the good guy wins. That's good enough for me. The good guy is not always the person you thought it was, but he's good enough to count.

So I'm not going to tell you what this book is about because first of all, that will ruin it, and second of all, I can't. I don't mean I have some moral obligation to keep the plot a secret, I just mean that even after reading it a second time... I have no idea what the book is about. I know waht happens in it, and I understood absolutely everything that I read. But I still couldn't tell you what it was about if I tried. But I don't care. I still liked it. After that mess of chick lit that I plowed my way through, I was relieved to be reading something sans manageable plot.

Pick up a Louis Sachar book and read it. You'll enjoy it. It's probably silly and it may make absolutely no sense. But that's the whole point. You don't care what book is about because you just enjoy the ride on your way there.

Still Life With Elephant

Still Life With Elephant, by Judy Reene Singer.

Chick book, type 3.

Get The Code

All We Ever Wanted Was Everything

All We Ever Wanted Was Everything, by Janelle Brown.

Chick book, Type 2.

Get The Code

And since SOME of you are complaining about "cheating"- there. I changed my background. Happy?

Off Season

Off Season, by Anne Rivers Siddons.

Chick book, Type 7.

Get The Code

The truth about girls and books... and movies

I've been reading, just not blogging. Since I have a lot of books to catch up on, I think it's time to admit the truth.

I read a lot of junk. Lots and lots of junk. I also read lots of really great stuff. But my go-to time killer/entertainment activity (after the TV/cross stitch combo, of course) is to read a book (or listen to one). Sometimes I am absorbing what I read, enjoying the nuances and/or literary genius that is laid out before me. Other times, well, I'm just killing time and don't really give a rat's ass what's in front of me. At those times I grab what's most likely to entertain me or something I can just pound the pages from front to back. That's usually some sort of juvenile or childlike fiction, or, sigh, chick lit. That's it! I don't care what you think of me! I'm a girl, and I read nonsense girlie books! (Not that romance crap, mind you, that's disgusting tripe.) I also watch chick flicks, too, got a problem with it? Didn't think so. No one's asking you to read them. And I'm not even asking you to read about them.

Well, except this one time. But I'd like to point out, no one is asking you to read this, so if you don't want to, well, don't. But I'm going to make my future girlie book blogging a lot easier by giving you this handy-dandy "all about chick lit" guide. That way you don't have to read about all the ridiculous details. FYI, I use movies (of course) to classify books, because most people have at least heard of these iconic (horrible) movies.

Type 1: Beaches. These are the stories that are all about THE GIRLS. In books about THE GIRLS we chronicle the friendship of two girls from beginning to the ultimately untimely end. Most often we meet these girls in their teeny little years. They are, of course, unlikely friends. They are, of course, singular friends. For some reason these unlikely people who attracted each other spend their entire lives attracting absolutely no one else. They have nothing in the world except for each other. They have saved each other from the world. THE GIRLS are all each other have, and all each other ever need. Until, of course, they fight for some reason... but don't worry, they make back up. Eventually. Maybe they fight again. Probably over a guy. Probably one of them has a happy relationship while the other is a bitter and bad friend about it, but don't worry... those other relationships won't last, because no man on earth can ever measure up to THE GIRLS, who complete each other. Now, I mentioned untimely end, and that is because THE GIRLS have an unspoken agreement to be each other's one and only until death do they part, which (in the best of Beaches-type books), they do. Generally it's a slow horrible death that really, really shows us just how MARVELOUS the friendship of THE GIRLS was. They were lucky to have each other. But, well, now they don't. They're dead. Shucks. And one does wonder... that was an awfully nice ending to the movie, but whatever happens to the other one?

Type 2: Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. Hereafter referred to as Ya-Ya (shudder). This is a loose adaptation of THE GIRLS storyline in that instead of just a pair, we have 3-6 GIRLS. Four seems to be the magic number, but there can be more. However many girls we need to round out a complete personality set, that's how many are in this book. You know, one wild, one shy, one angry, one crazy, etc, etc, all with the slightly ominous possibility of going completely nuts at the drop of a dime. (Generally at least one does.) Oh, and it helps if one is a writer, because that makes the story easy to tell. So you know, add one brainy, one stupid, one artsy, one sporty, one posh, one ginger, one baby... whoops, never mind. Lost my train of thought there. Anyway, this motley crew has the exact same specs and story lines as THE Beaches GIRLS, there's just more of them. Yikes. More women. Again. Shudder.

Type 3: Legally Blonde. This is the most fun type of chick lit. You know why? It's about NOTHING! Absolutely nothing! There's some girl. She's really girlie. She talks about shopping, shoes, boys, sparklies, hair, puppies, calories, soap, curtains, and her favorite color. Who cares? No one cares! But for some reason... it's still funny. Toss in a few humorous scenarios and somebody in the book who can crack good one-liners and it's amusing enough. It doesn't matter that the joke was about stilettos... it was still funny. And it made you turn the page to see the punch line. You don't care what the punch line is. You know you're just trying to find out what it is. And you know you're going to enjoy getting to the punchline because for some inexplicable reason along the way chickie will trip into a mud puddle and her skirt will fly up and reveal that she had to wear her holey granny panties instead of the more appropriate thong because her dog pooped in her fancy underwear drawer. Oh, and she's got a booger hanging out of her nose and toilet paper stuck to her shoe. Who cares? No one cares! It's still funny!

Type 4: Erin Brockovich. This is a movie all about THE WOMAN. And this WOMAN has POWER. And she will let NOTHING stand in her way until she has been given what is RIGHTFULLY HERS. WOMAN POWER. GO WOMAN, GO!!! Sometimes this movie is a little funny, say, Bull Durham style. Most often it's just a painful, horrible struggle where everything just keeps going wrong until at the end, sigh, we realize that she's had her power all along. Sort of Places in the Heart. I have nothing more to say about this movie, because of all the chick movies... this one is the most annoying to me. It's like women need to watch this movie to be reminded that they are, in fact, human, and that they do, in fact, have rights. Good grief. I don't need a multi-million dollar lawsuit to convince me that I'm worth something. Jeez, ladies, go read the Bible. Find some of your own self-worth, don't go watch some fantasy to convince yourself you don't have to sleep your way to the top. But sadly, this is the kind of movie that chicks watch and then go out the next day and try to conquer the world. (Invariably they fail and end up back at home with a quart of ice cream and a Type Seven.)

Type 5: The Wedding Singer. Now, nearly everybody that I know that grew up in the 80s loves this movie. So guys reading this are now whining at me: what?! That's not a chick movie! Stupid girl, that's just a good movie! Well, sorry guys, you been snookered. You didn't know you were watching a chick movie. It's a very special deceptive kind of chick movie called THE DATE MOVIE. This movie is designed to be universal in its appeal- There are plenty of funny jokes and amusing dialogue- probably at least one or two slightly crude references but more than likely no real nudity. Definitely none of those long annoying sex scenes. At least one nice romantic kiss- because really... sorry, guys, hidden among all that actual entertainment, this movie is really all about the romance. And you, poor sap, have been conned into seeing something that your date is counting on you taking some pointers from. She fully expects you to pretty much recite that sweet little speech at the end of the movie that leads up to a fabulous kiss (complete with musical fanfare) that the camera zoomed out from at the end. When you go to this movie, buddy... take notes. There will be a quiz.

Type 6: My Best Friend's Wedding. This is the WORST kind of chick movie!! EVERYBODY beware of this one. This one is in disguise. It looks like THE DATE MOVIE. Previews and all else will lead you to believe it's safe. But it's really (type 4) in disguise. Guys are ready to see at least one bathroom joke and girls expect the glittering smooch and happily ever after. Guess who wins? Girls win. This movie is all about the torturous journey that leads to the eventual happily ever after. And this journey is, indeed, TORTUOUS. The guy is a hapless idiot. The girl is supposed to look like some all smart and sassy and in control chickie, but is unhorsed from her control seat by the supposedly charming and gorgeous hapless idiot. Consequently, you hate them both. They are absolutely retarded. There is no reason for them to be together yet they continue to torture you with their how-we-came-to-be story. And then for some reason when they get together at the end, no one questions it. Apparently she doesn't care that he's just a beer swilling porn addict (his passions) who cares nothing about fashion or art (her passions)- love conquers all, right? Oh, how sweet. Here's the kicker. When this movie is over, the female watcher inevitably asks the male watcher "didja like it?" Male watchers beware: any answer other than, "Sure, it was great!" Is UNACCEPTABLE. You will sleep alone on the couch. Seen it happen. (Also seen "Sure, it was great!" turn into a very favorable scene on the couch. FYI.) Let's be totally honest here. Any girl who drags her guy to one of these movies and expects him to like it is an idiot. And any guy who is dating a girl dumb enough to ask her guy what he thought of this ridiculous cinematic experience is also an idiot. He DESERVES to be forced to act like he likes it in order to get what he wants. Basically, they are just the characters in the movie and they deserve each other. And their life is, predictably, tortuous.

Type 7: The English Patient. OY!!! This third type of romance movie is THE WORST. Wait, I said the last one was the worst. Well, that one is the worst, but this is the longest, so it is a special kind of horrible. In fact, it's length alone is something that classifies it's type. This movie must be long, epic, weepy, and void of any plot other than watery eyes. It makes you wish you hadn't ordered the extra large soda at the concession stand. The only thing you care about during this movie is whether or not the two lovebirds will overcome their extraordinarily bad circumstances (controlling parents, terminal illness, living miles apart, being engaged to powerful royalty other than your sweetie) and eventually live happily ever after. The kicker is, you're never sure until the last few minutes of the movie. More than likely, somebody will die or marry the wrong person or be chosen for Biosphere 14 and have to live underground for the rest of their life. It's a shame, really, because some morbid curiosity drives you to the end to find out what happens... and if you happen to be unlucky enough to watch this in a theater, you can't watch it in fast forward to speed up the tedious process of love-getting. And let's not forget the love-making- there must be at least one painfully gratuitous sex scene in this movie. With strange illumination, extra caresses, tossing heads, ecstatic gasps, and that very original morning-after scene with our two lovers basking in the glory of their night of passion. Man bare-chested and woman with sheet wrapped around their boobies. Don't even act like you don't know what I mean or are offended by my description... you've all watched it. So here's the thing about this romance movie- guys go to this movie expecting to win points and be rewarded for their suffering. They think their date will get in the mood and they'll have a little extra caressing themselves. Foiled again, guys- your girl has watched this movie and is completely overwhelmed emotionally by the magic she has just witnessed, and she will want to talk about it. You will undoubtedly answer a question incorrectly. A fight will ensue. You will sleep alone. On the cold, hard floor. Couches are for men who care about their women enough to truly open up and share their feelings with them. Sucker.

Type 8: The Other Sister. This is a tricky kind of movie, because it has to have a heroine who is truly an underdog in society. In this particular movie she's mentally retarded, but she could also be a little stupid, one-legged, or just plain ugly. It all counts. The point is, this poor underprivileged dear has too long of a list of odds up against her to possibly be able to fulfill her hopes and dreams. Guess what? She does it anyway! Turns out she can live on her own without burning down the place (if she's retarded), she can learn to read and gets a job (if she's a little stupid), she finds a boyfriend who makes her a prosthesis (if she has one leg), or contacts and conditioner fix all her problems (if she's ugly). The point is, this woman isn't REALLY impaired, but oppressed by society, and once she discovers her inner awesomeness, well, she finds out that the stars have been aligned for her all along after all. Go woman. Yay fuglies.

Type 9: Veggietales. Okay. Veggietales is not a chick flick. But it is the only predictable Christian-themed video production I could think of. See, Type Nine is totally different from all the rest of the chick books. It’s called Christian chick lit. It’s a very strange genre. The stories are always different, but equally predictable. The theme is always THE SPIRITUAL JOURNEY. Obstacles that test our little heroes and heroines are always merely blessings in disguise. I’m not calling it unrealistic, but only in Type Nine can a person rob a prayer group at gunpoint and then join said prayer group later after a spontaneous baptism in the lake. Not to mention the trusted aunt to whom our dear little Amish girl has always turned with her problems turns out to be her real mother, praise the Lord and we’re all going to forgive each other for living a lie for 25 years! True loves return from the misunderstood grave, unconverted husbands become holy rollers, and some god-fearing child single-handedly saves a tiny little western town from the beer-guzzling thugs that would drag it down to Satan’s lair. And that’s why this crowd of books is just like Veggietales. Always a different story, but always the same ending: God wins.

Type 10: The Thomas Crown Affair. There’s not much to say about this one except that it’s another one of those “I fooled you!” chick types. Most of the world sees this book/movie and thinks, “Hey, that looks good!” Its advertising is actually geared toward the male persuasion. It appears to have all the good guy parts- action, crime, cops, token hot chick. So guys go see it expecting to see a James Bond type flick, only to discover- zoinks! The hot chick isn't really a token. Unfortunately, the whole story revolves around her, and this little romp in chickland ends with requited love. Awww. Sorry guys, but your date is happy!

Type 11: Sex In The City. There is not much to say about this kind of book/movie/tv show/tv network/horrible, horrible horrible piece of literature. This is the kind of thing that any self-respecting woman will not admit to reading. (So if any woman ever admits to reading/watching/liking this stuff, be warned: she is more than likely just as shallow as all the characters in this book/movie/horror show.) I, however, have no self-respect, so I will admit to reading this… sigh… book. Ish. Thing. I will not, of course, admit to liking it. Hated it. However, as outlined earlier, I read everything. So it is no reflection on my character. But for the occasional boy who might happen upon this blog, I’m going to tell you the truth about this particular category. If you meet a girl who admits to “just looooving” anything written by Candace Bushnell, the E! Network, or the mall- any mall, mind you- then run. Run like the wind, Bullseye.She will spend $50,000 on a wedding and divorce you in six months when she doesn’t receive a new pair of shoes every day, every hour, on the hour. And not that Payless junk, either. You’re going to have to go designer, baby.

And that's it. That's what I've classified so far. I may add some classes from time to time as I come across something that doesn't fit into these categories, but I think that I've got the gist here for right now. If you think I've missed something, by all means, suggest another category. In the meantime, enjoy NOT having to read all the gory details about those silly books I read. I promise to read good stuff in between, too... if I have time.

Chains and Twisted

These are both by Laurie Halse Anderson, and the reason I am putting them both in one entry is because I'm WAY, WAY behind on logging these nifty books I'm reading. I'm about ten books behind. So I'm putting these together because they were both really fast reads and both by the same author and both really good, but I don't really have much to say about them. I like this author a lot because she writes lots of different styles and about lots of different subjects. (There are some very descriptive words in those last few sentences. I'm very proud of them.) By that I mean she usually writes about teenagers (these are considered "young adult" books, which are generally my favorite kind of fiction) but she sets her characters in modern high schools, historically tumultuous times, outer space, you get it. So she's a really versatile writer and I generally enjoy her stories. But that's pretty much what they are: just stories, and since I'm not 13 I'm not amazingly overwhelmed by the profundity. I just like reading them.

It reminds me of Judy Blume books when I was a kid. Judy Blume everybody read. Her stories were all about normal every day kids and all normal every day kids enjoyed reading them. Then she would write the story that includes a makeout scene or a kids "discovering" their bodies, etc etc, and the book became THE hot item as soon as it was found out. It was passed under desks from giggly girl to giggly girl. Our parents were horrified and forbid us to read all Judy Blume books and tried to get her banned from the library. But luckily, Superfudge was an innocent story about a four-year-old so only individual books like Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret got kicked off the shelves.

That didn't stop us from finding copies anyway so we learned how we must, we must, we must increase our bust. Obviously I was too goody-two-shoes to use that charm for myself. Sigh.

Anyway, long live young adult authors. Long may those over-intelligent eight-year-olds learn more about adolescence than they were meant to by reading them. Long may they suffer the consequences... long may I continue to block my scarring memories from second grade.

Travels with Charley

I don't read much Steinbeck, but when this book turned up in the pile of old-books-that-mom-doesn't-want-anymore, I couldn't resist it. It's John Steinbeck's true account of the time that he packed himself and his dog into a custom-built pickup camper and took about three months driving all over the US. As this is an activity I enjoy participating in quite a bit myself (minus the custom built comfort, substitute a teeny tiny car) I had to find out what the literary genius thought of the road. Would he have inspiring insights for my next trip? Did he think that the big ol' US of A is as great as I do? Would his fabulous journey render my silly little jaunts completely inconsequential?

Yep, yep, and nope. This book was devoid of the usual "literary genius" that laces Steinbeck's work. It may have been a bestseller, but no English teachers are assigning it for mandatory reading. It lacks that artistry and poetic prose that marks Steinbeck's greater known novels. Probably why I liked it so much.

As fun as it was for me to read Steinbeck's thoughts on many, many places I either knew well or have visited or have always wanted to visit, I admit to reading the book because I was intrigued by a person who hopped in the car with just a dog for company. Most people know I'm a little quirky about my dog, too, so this was fun for me to find a kindred spirit. But buried in those pages I found what I was looking for: just a little bit of validation.

Page 138: "Charley is no more like a dog than he is like a cat. His perceptions are sharp and delicate and he is a mind-reader. I don't know that he can read the thoughts of other dogs,but he can read mine. Before a plan is half-formed in my mind, Charley knows about it, and he also knows whether he is to be included in it. There's no question about this. I know too well his look of dispair and disapproval when I have just thought that he must be left at home."

Ah HA!! Validation!!! I am not imagining it! There are certain dogs who walk this earth who just have it. They got it: these dogs can read human minds and understand human words and communicate human emotions through eerily human expressions. And anyone who knows my dog Caleb knows... he's one of THEM. These strange breed of dogs that are either humans reincarnate or aliens deposited on earth contriving to one day take over our pathetic little species. Caleb can take one look at me in the morning (before I have raised my head from my pillow) and predict exactly what's going to happen to him for the next 16 hours. He can tell if his favorite massage client is coming over by the type of music I turn on. He knows whose house I've snuck off to visit without him and punishes me with his childish pouts when I come back home. This dog can tell exactly what I'm thinking and communicates his thoughts just as clearly as he reads mine.

It can be sort of disconcerting, actually... you get used to the idea of a dog as just this little furry accessory for a family. But just when you think he's some innocent dumb animal, you catch a glare from this creature in the corner and you realize you're looking at... something... that is more than just a cute furry face. He's taking you apart with his eyes. (And let me tell you, there are some moments where you really wish you had a little privacy instead of some strange dog with a voyeuristic attitude and narcissism complex boring into your soul.)

And it's not just me. Everyone who meets this dog says the same thing- he's one of a kind: He's definitely got more person-ality than dog-ness to him. We think it might be the eyebrows... Ah, Caleb. To know him is to love him.