Yes, I Have Apparently Stopped Reading

It's not that I lost interest — I have a list of about 30 books to get to, all related to the idea of apocalypse, be it zombie fiction, climate change prognosis, or just survival tips. (Here are a couple: guns and gardens.)

But since I was picked in the lottery for the Western States Endurance Run, I haven't been able to relax enough to read. My leisure time is soaked up by television's spongy glow. I've been halfway through Ender's Game for four months.

The stupidest part is that I've been working even less — way even less — than usual, so I know I have the time. But within a few pages of opening any book, my mind starts succumbing to the paranoia that I'm ill-prepared for the race, which even among 100-mile trail races is a pretty tough one.

I'll write some about my training very soon.

No, I Haven't Stopped Reading

I just haven't been telling you about it. I don't know... I guess I feel like we're drifting. The sex isn't as fulfilling, your eyes -- they look so distant sometimes. So far away.

You still smell like day-old waffles, which I like. I suppose I'll have to hold onto that. Soon, it may be all I have.

The Backyard Beekeeper by Kim Flottum is the definitive reference for the person what is named in the title. The Birdchick Blog contains a lot of good stories about one woman's beekeeping experience, along with copious photos and movies.

When I finally get back into the country, I badly want to get some hives. I also want goats.

And chickens. It's ridiculously enjoyable to watch them cluck around, pecking the ground bugs and seeds. It'd probably be even better with a cooler of beer.

Plus, dozens of heritage breeds exist, each of which has different coloration, different eggs, and a different personality.

Living with Chickens by Jay Rossier details what's necessary to raise your own flock, either in the country or a city backyard. He includes plans for a basic coop and shows how to kill and clean them, if you're into that sort of thing.


Monster Planet finished out David Wellington's trilogy of zombie novels. Fun stories, but Romero's concept of the zombie makes more sense to me than Wellington's mystical version. Recommended anyway.


McSweeney's 23 was the rare issue where every story was on target. There are always standouts and several other good stories, but almost always at least one stinker. I loved every story in this one.


McSweeney's 24 was bound as a very cool double-issue, with one side being stories centering around "trouble", and the other side containing writer's remembrances of Donald Barthelme.

I'm not familiar with Barthelme's work, but the two uncollected stories published here make clear his influence on writers like George Saunders (whose tribute to and analysis of Barthelme is also here). His prose is considered and compact. And unpredictably weird, like Borges.

Another great issue. McSweeney's is always recommended. You really should subscribe.

Oh, Merle. Merle's Door is about the life and death of Ted Kerasote's dog. It's also packed with research that combines with Kerasote's experiences with Merle to form a perspective unique from the prevailing ones about dog behavior and sociology that say dogs require submission to an alpha figure in order to be satisfied. Kerasote believes that the independence Merle was allowed made him a smarter, happier dog with greater logical ability than most domesticated dogs and a more distinct personality. The many studies he quotes seem to back that up.

It's easy for a dog book to be sappy and maudlin, but Kerasote never once falls into that trap even when describing Merle's final weeks. He's fantastic at translating Merle's actions into speech and emotion, and it rarely comes across as anthropomorphization.

The account of Merle's death (and that of his best dog friend, Brower) is absolutely heart-crushing. I bawled as if he were my own. The research alone is reason enough to own this book and refer to it frequently, but ultimately Merle's Door is a great biography of a great dog. It shows what potential every dog has and opens a new way to think about our relationships with them. Very highly recommended.

Blogging is Still Gay

But I had to share this with you. About a week ago, I received the following e-mail:

Interesting blog. I like how you generalize about "Black People" and I wonder how narrow your life must be to even think of something this myopic. You gotta live in some small town, not college educated and work at some bullshit job. Only a person with those characteristics could write something that "I'm with stupid" dumb.

Jay D****

My response follows:

Mr. Dee:

Thank you! I'm glad you like reading my generalizations about "Black People" as much as I like writing them. Also, I'm glad to see that someone else is unable to write the phrase "Black People" without surrounding it in quotation marks, because what are these "Black People" we keep hearing about, anyway? Well, I guess I've always used the term to refer to a group of humans whose dark skin is characteristic of someone of African descent. Perhaps we can agree that that definition encompasses the term fairly concisely, so it no longer requires quotes or indiscriminate capitalization. Now that we've got that nailed down, perhaps someday we can move on to analyzing the etymology of "White People." I know! What are THOSE supposed to be, right?

Jumping back to the subject at hand, however, I should thank you -- yes, again! -- for commenting on something so old that I had to run through my blog's archive to figure out what the hell you were talking about. In doing so, I ended up reading a bunch of my older pieces. Holy cow! I am one funny motherfucker! Sexy, too! Like, H-O-T sexy. It would be dishonest of me not to admit that there were some, ahem, rather steamy bathroom breaks in-between reading sessions.

Anyhow, in rereading that piece, I got the impression I had been writing specifically about the project-dwelling thugs in BIG, WHITE T-SHIRTS who used to glare contemptuously at me as I drove to work every day while I lived in the tiny burg of Atlanta. (Atlanta? Whoops! Huh, Jay?) I also foolishly misinterpreted the opening sentence to be a reference to the lyrics of "White Tee" by Crime Mob. Apparently, I was actually making racist generalizations. I must have bought into the common racist misconception that every Black person in the world wears light-colored, ill-fitting tops. A misconception not too different, incidentally, from the one that all people in the world who run websites named Torso Fever are not incredibly good-looking, well-endowed men who like to eat tomato sandwiches and frequently forget why they walked into a room.

Sadly, I no longer live in Atlanta (where I moved after finishing college -- whoops again! -- in this charming hamlet on the East coast called New York City). I have since taken up residence in Portland, Oregon, where people's shirts tend to fit slightly better. Luckily, they still tolerate the hate speech I apparently spew almost constantly. Even my Filipina wife is okay with it! Can you believe that? Why does she hate herself so much? I don't know! I'm just enjoying it until she wises up and escapes to a more racially tolerant city -- like, say, Nashville -- and shacks up with some caring, thoughtful motherfucker -- like, say, yourself -- and spends the rest of her days receiving long, erotic foot massages.

I'm not going to tell you my profession, but I bet you could guess it if you tried really hard. I assure you, though, I am a very unhappy, petty man, and I randomly lash out at those around me because of it, especially well-meaning critics and "Black People." (Dang it! I was trying really hard not to do that! I swear!)

Thank you for your kind wishes, and thank you for waking me up to my own intolerance. I'm sure if you had a blog, it would give me a lot to think about. I bet I would determine from it that you are a cosmopolitan college graduate with a totally AWESOME job. Also, I may infer from it that just about everyone wants to be you, or at least a member of your classy, erudite entourage.

Good eve and a fine morrow to you, sir. Best of luck in your studies.

Kindly,
Me

P.S. Can you smell that? I just farted in your face, dumbshit.

Pfft.

Fuck this. I'm done. Blogging is gay.

The Book-a-Week Project, Book 22

Your Disgusting Head: The Darkest, Most Offensive and Moist Secrets of Your Ears, Mouth and Nose
Dr. Doris Haggis-on-Whey

Yeah, it's a children's book. So what? It ain't called The Novel-a-Week Project, is it? Besides, it's written by Dave and Toph Eggers, so it's absurd and therefore also appealing to adults. The design accurately apes the style of the thin volumes about gems and historical characters that, as a child, I'd take from the shelves of my grandparent's house when I couldn't fall asleep on Christmas Eve. The writing is almost stream-of-consciousness weirdness most of the time. It's funny. And kids would probably like it. I guess. Good for them.

The Book-a-Week Project, Week 21

The Columnist
Jeffrey Frank

This is the second book I've read because it was recommended by David Sedaris. The first was the miserable Jenny and the Jaws of Life by Jincy Willett. I need to consider and remember that because an author is influential doesn't mean she's similar, because while I've rarely met anyone who found David Sedaris anything less than knee-slappingly funny, Jincy Willett would only be funny to someone who, like the lead singer of Barenaked Ladies, is the kind of guy to laugh at a funeral. A clown's funeral, perhaps, but not just any funeral. Not me.

The Columnist is also very different from Sedaris' humor, but in a different way from Willett's book. It's a fictional autobiography narrated by a self-aggrandizing newspaper columnist, detailing his manipulative relationships -- romantically, professionally, and socially -- calculated to gain him public influence and prominent social status. His pomposity and obliviousness to his own motives is amusing, but not much more than that and not for very long. If I'm going to read stories narrated by a pretentious ass, I prefer the blunt egotism of The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature or the madcap recklessness of P.G. Wodehouse's Bertie Wooster. Don't you? Yes, it turns out you do.

The Columnist was a waste of time. We hate it, don't we? Yes, it turns out we really, really do. But we still love David Sedaris in spite of his poor taste.

The Book-a-Week(?) Project, Week 20

In Persuasion Nation: Stories
George Saunders

If George Saunders were Willy Wonka, I would have already ballooned up like a gigantic blueberry or gotten my fat ass sucked up the chocolate pipe. This is his most recent book, and the best. These stories have urgency to them that didn't seem so desperate in previous collections. Death pops up more frequently ("Brad Carrigan, American"). Humans are at their cruellest, both to other humans ("CommComm") and to animals ("The Red Bow" and the somewhat puzzling inclusion "93990", which details LD50 experiments that one primate is mysteriously unaffected by).

The joy remains, however. When George Saunders loses hope, the world is truly irredeemable.

Next, maybe The Columnist by Jeffery Frank, or Your Disgusting Head by Dr. Doris Haggis-on-Whey.

Incidentally

I own an American flag and it resides in a box of dried opium poppy stalks. It's not a statement about the American government's drug trade complicity or addiction or nationalism or cardboard boxes. It just fell in there and I never bothered to take it out.

McSweeney's

Oh, that's why you're so excited! You're excited because McSweeney's is having a huge sale to make up some losses from a distributor bankruptcy. You're thrilled that their entire backlist of books is 50% off and most else is 30% off! Well, that's certainly understandable, considering you can get some amazing books for cheap and contribute to a worthwhile cause.
Oh? You're also excited by having discovered the McSweeney's Recommends section of the site? That makes sense, too, since you're bound to find many things you realize you should have known about and will now keep in your mind-pocket like that worthless foreign coin that you occasionally rub for good luck because it's left over from that crazy, fantastic summer you spent in Europe.

The Book-a-Week Project, Week 19

To the Edge: A Man, Death Valley, and the Mystery of Endurance Kirk Johnson

Badwater is probably the most infamous legitimate ultramarathon in the United States. It starts in Death Valley, at the lowest point in the United States, and proceeds 135 miles to the portal of Mt. Whitney. In early years, it ran to the summit of that mountain, but regulatory complications make that impossible now. Some competitors head to the summit on their own, but the race officially ends at the portal.

It is nonetheless a motherfucker. Aside from the distance, the temperatures hover around 130 degrees in the shade. Since the entire race is run on asphalt with no protection from the sun except for nightfall, the perceived temperature is closer to 200 during the day.

To run the course today, entrants must have at least one 100-mile race under their belt, but typically they're more seasoned, running multiple such races in the same year. In 2000, when Kirk Johnson ran, requirements were apparently more relaxed. He had two 50-milers and a few marathons on his resume, nothing more.

He was writing about the race for the New York Times and initially planned to drop out partway through, but later decided to attempt the whole course. Much of the book is weighed down by explorations of the reasons for his older brother's suicide and fears of marital discord. Once the race starts, his story thankfully veers away from his misgivings and feelings of inadequacy to the emotional breakdown, hallucinations, and psychedelic epiphanies that are the interesting part of Badwater.

It's a treat to finally hear about this race from someone who can write. The only other accounts I've read are from Pam Reed, in The Extra Mile: One Woman's Personal Journey to Ultra-Running Greatness, and Dean Karnazes, in Ultramarathon Man: Confessions of an All-Night Runner. Reed and Karnazes are both far more accomplished runners than Johnson -- both have won the race multiple times -- but their books are packed with flaws.

The primary flaw of The Extra Mile is that it was written at all. Reed writes like a seventh-grader and even in her own words comes across as an immensely unlikable asshole. Her anorexia and inability to be faithful to her husband keep popping up throughout the book. (What? A narcissistic, manipulative anorexic? Who'd have thought?)

Karnazes is a marketer and his life is devoted to marketing himself. Ultramarathon Man makes clear that he would happily drop his running career and family if he could trade them for a clone of himself with which he could spend the rest of his life dancing, romancing, and fucking, fucking, fucking. After a while, his book becomes a series of brags told by a self-aggrandizing frat boy who's cornered you at a party you didn't want to go to in the first place.

If Badwater sounds interesting, the best place to start is Running on the Sun, a documentary that was filmed in 2000, the same year Johnson ran the race. It's surprisingly easy to find.

Next: Sadly, the only thing by George Saunders I haven't yet read: In Persuasion Nation.