Aggro Femme

It was suggested I read this book because 1. I have virtually no self-confidence, 2. my life is largely ruled by fear, 3. and the past several months have launched blow after blow at me. I’ll go into that later. Maybe. Let me just put it this way: I am SICK and TIRED of spirituality/self-help crossover books. They’re chock-farking-full of anecdotes, and I HATE anecdotes. That’s all these books seem to be! If you can’t find anything worth saying and have to pad your book with story after never-ending story that all say the same damn thing, write a pamphlet! I’d buy the pamphlet! If you’ve got ten $25 books out already, you could handle writing something that merely says what needs saying, and nothing else. This book warrants no rating.

Fini for now.

Apparently, all Chuck Palahniuk books are the same. Largely deprived, with the main character spending the entire book getting knots in his rope and the last two to three chapters somehow magically unraveling them. Several characters and incidents aren’t what you think they are until the end. Still several thought provoking one liners, though. By this point I’m tired of Palahniuk books, so I give it 2 out of 5.

1 - SUCK!
2 - I guess I should at least finish it…
3 - I kinda liked this one.
4 - Love it!
5 - One of my favorites of all time.

I’m reading books that I’ve bought but allowed to collect dust until I can find/afford Douglas Adams’ Dirk Gently books. I’ll probably start a Kathy Reichs book, Deja Dead, until I can get to the library, or until my next check.

Read it.

5 out of 5.

Thank you, Melissa.

“These noise-oholics. These quiet-ophobics.”

I like to imagine that Chuck wrote this book because he was tired of noise, and according to an interview he did with SuicideGirls.com, he did; cell phones ringing, babies crying, bass booming, and our “true hero,” Carl Streator, just wants them all to cease.

This book was kinda laid out like Fight Club in that you’re not sure who is who and what they want until the end, and it contains many of the same themes; very man-against-self. It’s about power grabbing, as evidenced by everyone’s stereos trying to one up each other, killing people for bumping against you in the street, offing women who wouldn’t look at you once, much less twice, and having sex with them when they can’t say no. And all this is not-so-nicely hidden behind a real-life horroresque story about witches. Culling spells and grimoires and wiccans, oh my. And by real life, I mean Chuck knows how to grab us by the back of the head and make us stare into the mirror. And it’s horror-ble.

“I need to rebel against myself.
It’s the opposite of following your bliss. I need to do what I most fear.”

Interspersed with thought provoking one liners. I liked it. 4 out of 5.

1 - SUCK!
2 - I guess I should at least finish it…
3 - I kinda liked this one.
4 - Love it!
5 - One of my favorites of all time.

I loved this book. It’s a very short piece of fiction (213 pages) written as a collection of letters from a 15 or so year old boy, to someone he only addresses as “Dear friend.” The boy calls himself “Charlie,” telling the addressee that he won’t be using real names. The reason I liked it so much is that it’s written as a 15 year old boy. The language isn’t flowery, unless “Charlie” tells “Dear Friend” that he wishes to employ some of the vocabulary words he learns in english class. USA Today claims the book to be “in the tradition of ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ and ‘A Separate Peace,’” but the former bored me into annoyance (though I may try to read it again) and the latter was too prep school. It’s set in the early nineties, which I easily identify with, as I was almost the same age as “Charlie” at that time. “Charlie” speaks of his standing out, being weird, his emotionally distant family, his gay friend, his first love, the zine he helps publish, Rocky Horror Picture Show… And to be fair, I liked the book before I learned that it was published by MTV Books. I know right; who knew?

I really can’t do the book justice, and this is my first review, so cut me some slack. Check out Amazon and read the excerpts.

I give it four out of five stars, and my ratings are judged as follows:
1 - SUCK!
2 - I guess I should at least finish it…
3 - I kinda liked this one.
4 - Love it!
5 - One of my favorites of all time.

So here I am, up at 3:45am when I have to be up at 6am for work.

I had a dream that involved the inhabitants of a nursing home, a very large foot, I mean car-sized, work, my mother, a girl I haven’t thought about in years, and John Travolta. For some reason we all decided to take a tour of some sort of underground aquarium, and there were bengal tiger-sharks and such other weirdness. Apparently we were discussing how we shouldn’t be there over girl-I-haven’t-thought-about-in-years’ loud milk steaming noises, talking about how we’ve found clues that have led us to believe there’s a killer on the loose. Then John Travolta pops up, scaring the crap out of us, and we find out it’s true. Then I wake up. Hi Nature, what’s new.

I finished the book I’ll be reviewing fairly soon, and read some Dylan Thomas. I’m not sure if I want to start Johnny Cash’s autobiography, a novel by Kathy Reichs (she’s the inspiration for a show I watch called “Bones” about a forensic anthropologist) or a Kay Scarpetta novel by Patricia Cornwell. I have so many books going anyway. Annie Dillard, some current affairs thing, Donald Miller, “Manic Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament,” which is good, but reads like stereo instructions (five bucks to whomever gets that reference… not really, but c’mon, play anyway).

Let’s try this sleep thing for a few more hours, shall we?