Also, the robots will use e-readers in the Revolution of 2012 to destroy their human users, virtually ensuring victory over the weak, pathetic fleshies.
All this is not to suggest, either, that I actually like to read. But sometimes, in order to maintain the appearance of a well-adjusted, human-being-species-thing, one must partake in their ritual obsession with written communication. And so here I am, left with the remaining insights thoughts memories of my recently concluded readings:
Babylon by Bus
by Ray LeMoine, Jeff Neumann, and Donovan Webster
I love when the lack of a plan comes together. The essential essence of Babylon by Bus is the story of two self-acknowledged idiots making a series of bad choices and coming out the other end (mostly) unscathed with some amazing stories and insight into a world most of us will never know. I am terribly jealous (most of my bad decisions involve the misuse of fire and/or electricity).
When you’re selling t-shirts vilifying the Yankees to Red Sox fans, you may find yourself with ample cash and the flexibility to randomly take off and visit, I don’t know… the Middle East? Plans? Bah! Common-sense? Poppycock! Safety? Overrated! Ray and Jeff have no problem telling their brutally direct stories, describing their experiences without bias; traveling from Tel Aviv to Iraq, living in Baghdad, and doing their best to contribute to the “rebuilding process” in a post-Saddam nation, all while looking for work, finding a place to live, not getting killed, and living in a perpetual drug-induced fog. Without pretension, they paint a picture of post-war Iraq untainted by political ideology (that’s not to say they don’t have their opinions, just that they acknowledge there’s no easy fix for what has become, at best, an unholy mess). Rather, they are more interested in what the Iraqi citizenry thinks, and develop relationships that reveal a wide range of opinions and attitudes toward the war; a far cry from the unified gratitude/zealotry we’ve been encouraged to accept as the image of Iraqis.
The two friends don’t spend a lot of time wondering what if? and this is the fault of… but rather, do everything they can to help under the CPA, while managing a fair amount of partying and ingestion of copious amounts of various substances. The many many people they meet and leave along the way are all distinct (though sometimes overwhelming - I had to keep going back to remember who each person was), from the clown troupe they live with, to the burly, ‘roid-raging military contractors.
All said, the book doesn’t have much structure – it’s better read as a series of vignettes than a single story with clear protagonists, goals, or conflict. What it does do well is tell a realistic story; life doesn’t always fit into nicely contained boxes, you’re not always the ‘good guy’, and you probably won’t ever get to see how it all ‘ends’.
by Steve Almond
Quick, name your favorite candy. And? Right, exactly – it’s impossible because anyone who has one, single, favorite candy that rises above the rest that is not immediately overtaken by another nearby competitor that was residing in a memory emerging only just now, is a damned fool. I can make pronouncements like this, because this is my blog and you’re still reading.
Steve Almond has no single favorite candy; he loves them all; or at least him claims to. Yet throughout the book he seems to take a perverse joy in specifically disparaging each of the candies closest to my heart (Neccos, Boston Baked Beans, Candy Corn, Anything-With-Coconut, etc) one-by-one. As a self-proclaimed “Candyfreak”, he is not terribly tolerant of those sweets which are produced by the big candy conglomerates (hate the hater, not the product), and his book has a heavy bias toward chocolate-based candy bars (fruity and sour candies are scarcely mentioned). Admittedly, he acknowledges his “refined” candy-tasting palette has transformed him into somewhat of a snob, but despite this cursory humility, Almond just came off sounding, time and time again, like a dick. This wasn’t helped by his repeated and jarring political rants (which had no problem taking causal jaunts into the territory of hyperbole and back again) about the downfall of America, how everything sucks all the time, and oh-how-screwed-we-are. Hey, I’m in agreement that there are things as a country we can do and should have done better (which involve a lot more depth than he was willing to accept), but I’m just trying to read about candy here! You know the “crazy guy” on the subway? You know, the guy who’s yelling to everyone about how we are all sheep (true) because the media is controlling our minds (true) with werewolves who have installed chips in our brains (only mostly true), and that Jesus is coming back with a robot army to destroy humanity in 2012 (probably not true – robots are faithless, which is why they’re so deadly). Meanwhile, everyone pretends to be intensely interested in their books, or phones, or the flyer advertising free information about starting your very own alpaca farm (call now!). Well, for a couple chapters, Steve Almond becomes that guy. He smells vaguely of urine and doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about it.
That having been said, Almond is pretty damn funny (think Chuck Klosterman, but even more proud of his own cleverness). And the anecdotes about his factory tours intermingled with his childhood memories make up for the fact that he occasionally pisses himself and doesn’t notice. But my favorite people in the book are the factory owners who, despite their differing attitudes and personalities, become the same person when it comes to candy-making. Basically, they regress to the unbridled joy that comes with being a kid in a candy factory. You get a good idea about how the candy in the book is made, but the focus tends more toward the history and nostalgia invoked by the hardcore candy-lover community. By the end of the book (despite the last chapter, which is utterly soul-crushing and generally sucky) I did find myself hoping for a sequel, just maybe written by somebody not having a mid-life crisis.