Life Under A Rock

Sunday’s reading was rather hampered by the fact that at one point, I had a massive breakdown that included crying, wailing, and whining for my mom.

No.  Joke.  It was definitely one of my finer moments!

But, because I am me, I still managed to read three books.  Man, that takes me back.  It was like being in college again!  During my freshman year, before I got into counseling because of That Man Who Done Me Wrong, I used to schedule my hysterical crying breaks.  “Now Deborah,” I would say to myself (usually aloud), “You can sob uncontrollably after you’ve finished writing this paper.”  And then I’d sniffle my way through another five paragraphs about hookers in Ancient Greece before having full-fledged meltdown.

Don’t worry, my current mental state has nothing to do with you.  No, I am not okay.  HOWEVER!  I am sorta functional, so I’m gonna review the rest of these fucking books and then move on with my g-d life.

Candace Camp, The Courtship Dance

So y’all wanted me to read a Regency Romance.  Here it is.  It’s thoroughly forgettable, although it does allow me to add a few cliches to my Dead Gay List:  the Feckless Gamester (the heroine’s former husband gambled everything they owned, including her honor!  Okay, in this book she’s just in danger of losing her house, but sometimes he totally sells her hot body).  Also, The Great Sexual Awakening:  the Heroine had an unhappy marriage in which no one seemed to own a copy of The Joy of Sex. So now she thinks she’s frigid.  Because her husband said she was.  Because he used to hump her without a by-your-leave.  So she’s all, “I can’t get busy with the Hero!  He’ll think I’m cold!  He’ll think I’m frigid!  Hey, what’s this funny feeling in my pants!  Surely that has NOTHING to do with sex!”

Ugh.

Like I said, there’s really nothing to this book.  The only interesting factoid I can relate is that when I was in my teens, I accidentally ran across a Candace Camp novel, in which the villains were your garden-variety Sexual Deviants. I remember this solely because at one point, the villain sexed up the hyper-horny villainess (who was old!  And droopy!  Naturally!) using a greasy chicken bone.

I remember that the chicken bone was greasy.  Because that’s the kind of detail you can never forget, no matter how hard you try.

Anne Fadiman, Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader

This is one of those books about reading that always makes me remember why I hate other readers so fucking much.  Basically, a bunch of essays about various aspects of reading; I actually enjoyed some of the pieces, but others left me cold.  Let me just put this out there:  I couldn’t care less about grammar.  It bores me.  And people who spend all their time correcting it bore me even more.  The English language, like all languages, is constantly evolving.  Get over the fact that the vast majority of us are using “they” instead of “him or her.”  It doesn’t matter how much your panties bunch, that’s just the way it’s worked out.  For the love of shit, move on with your lives.

Also, do not call science fiction trash.  Being genre doesn’t automatically make it “trash.”  Fuck you and your literary pretensions, Fadiman.

Edward Bloor, Taken

A strong contender for “worst book I have read all year.”  The plot is, “in the future, rich people will be even more paranoid than they currently are, as well as even more racist, and kidnapping rich kids will be a growth industry.”  Aaaaand it basically boils down to, “Being rich and white is a total drag!  Hey, kid, let’s take all the money and run off into the night and wear brownface for the rest of our lives!  Seriously, we’ll give you a new Spanish name and you can start calling your dad Papi!  Because that’s the only way to lead an authentic existence!”

Other white people…why do you continue to embarrass us all like this?  Really.  Seriously.  WHY.