I rarely carry a purse that isn't large enough to fit a book, and if you opened it up (the purse, that is) you would be almost certain to find one or two. Sometimes I buy books just because they're small enough to fit into an evening clutch. (Because generally when I find myself in an instance where I would need to carry an evening clutch, shit is so boring that I end up fervently wishing that I had a book tucked in there next to the switchblade and slim flask.)

One of the things I'm most looking forward to about moving to a new apartment (besides getting out of the bathtub and standing naked in front of the heater for an hour or two) is that I'll finally get to unpack my books from their sad, sad boxes, and organize them like this:

Simply beautiful. I could spend days in that photo. The color-coded organization scheme appeals to the aesthete in me, and the librarian side of me is just fine with it, too. (I am far from a Dewey thumper. FAR. Yes, some people do organize their home collections with it. We call those people freaks.)

***

My bedside table is stacked high with books (and ok, issues of Wizard magazine, too) that I'm currently in the middle of, almost done with, and have only just opened. I like reading several different books at once, so that at any given moment I can pick one up to go with my ever-mercurial mood.

In the current pile:

The Monsters of Templeton by Lauren Groff
A sea monster, town secrets, and a ghost story? Yes, please. I was further sold by page 7:

"I watched until the motorboats came back into sight, collectively straining to pull something pale behind them, something enormous and glinting in the new sun. And that's how I found myself running barefoot over the cold grass down to Lakefront Park, even as weary as I was at that moment. I went past our pool, now so thick with algae that it had become a frog pond, plunking with a thousand belly flops of terror when I passed."

BELLY FLOPS OF TERROR...what a great phrase. I can totally picture the frogs, frantic eyes bulged out, legs splayed mid-jump, and it amuses me to no end.

Random Family: Love, Drugs, Trouble, and Coming of Age in the Bronx by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc
Just picked this up at the off-hand mention in a brief story about a 7-year-old caught with 70 grams of crack on him at school. I can't even make a joke about that. A 7-year-old. Just horribly, horribly sad.

The Lost Painting by Jonathan Harr
I finished this one last week but I mentioned it so briefly that I wanted to give it another plug. It reads like fiction smoother than most fiction does, and yet it's completely real (and carefully researched).

The Corpse Walker: Real Life Stories: China from the Bottom Up by Liao Yiwu
Check out this interview snippet (excerpted from Harper's and posted on Jezebel):

Death and oppression. Yeah, this book is probably going to make me cry.

Expecting Adam: A True Story of Birth, Rebirth, and Everyday Magic by Martha Beck
This story of unexpected challenges and rewards involved with carrying and raising a developmentally disabled child came highly recommended. I haven't yet had time to get more than a chapter or two in, so I passed it on to my mother. She called me to tell me that she stayed up until 12:30am reading it, which means that it's as good as the Bible in her eyes.

Oil! by Upton Sinclair
I will get through this book. I will get through this book before I see There Will Be Blood (on which it's based) this week. I will. A tremendous book, but I just haven't been in the mood for it lately. Daniel Day-Lewis, on the other hand, I am always in the mood for.

Being Dead by Jim Crace
Someone recommended this book to me, calling it beautifully written and haunting in memory. The New York Times Book Review had this to say: "It's not clear to me why Jim Crace isn't world famous. Few novels are as unsparing as this one in presenting the ephemerality of love given the implacability of death, and few are as moving in depicting the undiminished achievement love nevertheless represents."

And The Literary Review chimed in with "What Crace, with dazzling originality, has done is to log the death of two natural scientists from an appropriately physical point of view. No detail is spared, yet the effect is strangely poetic and even reassuring...In that spare story a universe of poetry and observation is contained. This is a work of near-genius".

I've never been big on the gritty details of death, but I'm intrigued by the poetic and reassuring effect mentioned in the review, and curious to see how the Crace pulls this off. I'm expecting an interesting, if difficult, read out of this one.

***

A note for any of you that would like to read one/some of these books. The titles are linked to Amazon, more for the reviews than anything else. To get ahold of the book without having to buy it, check out worldcat.org. You enter the book's information, as well as your zip code, and the site generates a listing of nearby libraries that carry the book.

Free information. Get it!

***

If the above "I read a-fucking-lot" came off as boasting, know that it was not intended that way. Rather, I regard books with a fierce passion generally reserved for shoes, whiskey, and Tom Waits, and I thoroughly enjoy passing good books on to others so that they may get something out of them, too. It's hard for me to read something wonderful (or hear a great song/see a good movie/work of art) and not want to tell everyone about it. It's like "Hey! There are some beautiful things out there! Things that make living worthwhile! I shit you not! Let me show you them!"

So that's why I blather on about books. Not because I want you to know that I'm really, really smart, but because I'm a giver. (If it was just an attempt to demonstrate how devastatingly intelligent I am, I would just come out and say so. Because I am.)

Besides, "I'd rather read than spend time with most people. This is not normal, and probably not healthy, but I could be doing worse things so let me be. Or else I'll (paper) cut you." isn't really the sort of thing one brags about.

Friday night I went to the party of an artist, celebrating a show held earlier in the evening. (I didn't make it to the show since it is physically impossible for me to arrive anywhere before midnight. True story.) I didn't know the artist, but I jumped at the chance to get out of town, meet up with a friend that was going to be there, and drink other people's alcohol.

The party went on early into the morning; everyone was drunk (and very, very high), and as is prone to happen shit got heated (I know all about this), bottles were hurled (and this), and sculptures were destroyed (willing to learn). And then there was a group hug.

Or so I'm told. I wouldn't know, because I LEFT THE PARTY EARLY, after an hour or so, during which I drank only WATER. Actual water. Not like the times when I drink a glass of vodka and call it water because people look at you funny when you drink your alcohol straight and 8 ounces at a time.

The no drinking can be explained only by the fact that I saw several of these on the dark and winding road to the party:

They were all it took to keep me from drinking a drop of alcohol because, god forbid, I ingest a single sip of beer which affects my motor skills just the tiniest bit and slows my reaction time by an eighth of a second and before you know it I'VE KILLED BAMBI, BUT AT LEAST THAT DRINK WAS DELICIOUS.

No thanks. Did that once. Was not a fan.

So that explains the no drinking. But leaving the party early? On a Friday night? For no good reason? There were handsome artsy dudes (eh), drinks (think of roadkill, pass), drugs (pass), gambling (now we're getting somewhere), and general recklessness and destruction (big fan!).

But from the moment I got there, things felt off. I didn't know where I wanted to be, what I wanted to do, or who I wanted to be with, but I knew that it wasn't there, that, or with them.

The rest of the weekend was much the same. Going, doing, trying, leaving.

Which leads me to believe that the answer to the above is: in the bathtub, reading, alone.

(At least until this weekend. Or, you know, tomorrow night.)

Cheers.

A reader/art enthusiast wrote in to let me know that I overlooked Medusa when I detailed Caravaggio's love affair with decapitation:

So, thanks for the heads up, Andrew. (Oh gosh, I didn't even do that on purpose. Heads up? Ha! You're shaking uncontrollably with laughter at my rapier-like wit, right? ...No? Well then, moving on...)

I can't believe I forgot this one, as it's actually one of my favorites. But to be fair, I had a lot on my mind yesterday (beginning car restoration, grad school decisions, planning my escape abroad, etc.).

Thankfully, after I got out of work a good friend called me, picked me up, took me out, and got me good and drunk (on whiskey - he knows me well).

He also played this song for me, which for as bitter as it is somehow makes me smile a bit every time I hear it:

Cheers.

I found this photo by accident earlier tonight:

***

I miss you.

Though it sounds coarse, enough time has passed that I'm used to it. It's subtle. Almost like a disastrous new haircut; something you're uncomfortable with, but you adjust, and wait for it to grow out. You compensate, until you don't even notice that you're brushing your bangs out of your eyes every five minutes. Occasionally you catch yourself in a mirror and jump, because at first you don't recognize yourself.

Other times it's like a sledgehammer.

Though you didn't have a particularly illustrious history of it, I know that you would look out for me when I needed it.

And I need it.

And you're not here.

So I'll just have to keep missing you, and try to do ok on my own.

I know, I know. I didn't post Monday (I blame sleeping in, being upset, reading, drinking, a late night dinner, and patching things up with a friend), and yesterday was such a cruel return to the workweek (9am is a bitch) after having Monday off that I just couldn't string two sentences together for the life of me.

But today I'll totally make it up by talking about...a book! And an artist!

No, don't leave - it's a really good book, and an amazing artist. And, hell-raising, whiskey-drinkin' readers, I won't even post baby animal pictures today. (That doesn't mean that I can't link to them, though!)

***

One of my favorite things about dating/being in a relationship is mining the brain of your partner for cool shit. All of those bits and pieces that they took the time and energy to learn about throughout their lifetime, and then pass off to you. This is how I learned about Jawbreaker and Gregory Corso; why I have a deeper appreciation for Jackie Wilson and Glenn Barr.

Early in a relationship (when you find out all that neat stuff about each other) a boyfriend mentioned Caravaggio as one of his favorite artists. I was familiar with the name, but not much more than that. But last week I picked up a copy of The Lost Painting and it turns out that Caravaggio? TOTAL BADASS.

While it's nothing new for artists to paint themselves into a scene (as he did with the lantern holder in the The Taking of Christ), Caravaggio went a step further and modeled the head of Goliath in David with the Head of Goliath after his own. And the man was not vain. It is a gruesome, gruesome (read: awesome) thing:

He depicted his severed head again as John the Baptist's in Salome with the Head of John the Baptist:

Dude was big on decapitation, by the way:

Judith Beheading Holofernes

Burial of St. Lucy (Go ahead and guess how she died)

There's also Bacchus (a more "Come on, you know you want it" painting I have never seen. And oh yes, I do want it, pretty please) and Amor Victorius (Love Conquers All), which depicts a naked (of course) Amor/Cupid frolicking about the desecrated remains of his surroundings. Love conquering all visualized as a path of destruction?

Yeah, I can understand that.

Pretty neat shit, no? (Told you guys.)

It almost makes all the awfulness involved in breaking up (oh, did I not mention that part? Oops! Um, well, it sucked. And I cried. The end.) worth it when you walk away from the relationship with a broader awareness of and new appreciation for the many, many beautiful, interesting, and compelling things that are out there.

And that's something, at least. (Bright side! Bright side! Totally fine over here! Not crying at all!)

Ugh.

Happy V-Day! And Valentine's Day, too!

Yes, they're different. You didn't know? Oh, well then, allow me to explain. V-Day is less about cards and flowers and more about rape, female genital mutilation, and other general acts of violence against women. See? Just a little bit different.

Using today to spread awareness of these issues is WAY more important to me than candy hearts or diamonds (ugh, don't get me started on those overpriced, boring little fuckers) so if you find yourself so inclined, please check out vday.org, forward the link to friends and family, or do whatever bit you can.

***

That being said, on to Valentine's Day! I kind of TOTALLY LOVE it, but it's important to put it in perspective. (Though if you didn't get me flowers today, I'm going to cut you. Kidding! No, really, I am kidding.)

It's never been a day solely about romance for me (basing anything solely on romance? Yeah, no thanks!). I prefer to view it as a day to do nice things for all the people in your life that you love, particularly those that you've become accustomed to having around and may not always show appreciation for. Call your parents and tell them that you love them, surprise your best friends with a sweet gesture, take your dog out for an extra-long walk at Dog Beach. Do all those things that you should do, but don't, because the soul-crushing minutiae of life gets in the way and bogs you down until it's all you can do just to SURVIVE.

(I hear that happens sometimes.)

And do something nice for yourself, too:

Jameson 18 yr. old

Lindemans Framboise Lambic

...and, in the spirit of the day, this book:

Love is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield

I read a lot of books. A LOT of books. I'm getting my master's in library science and spend 40 hours a week working at a library, and it is all because of how VERY, VERY MUCH I love books. (Sometimes to the exclusion of pretty much anything/anyone else). And yet I can't recall a single time in which a book has ever made me cry. Not one. EVER.

But this book? Totally made me cry. A review from the Village Voice sums it up better than I could:

"Here's what we learn about Renée Crist, Rob Sheffield's wife, 14 pages into Love Is a Mix Tape: "Renée died on May 11, 1997, very suddenly and unexpectedly, at home with me, of a pulmonary embolism. She was thirty-one." Even with this knowledge, though, the memoir's narrative is so light and joyous that it comes as a shock when Renée dies halfway through.

Sheffield writes about their life together with such excitement that her death never looms; its inevitability fades. We meet Sheffield as an awkward kid in Boston and follow him through high school and college. When he encounters Crist, they're both grad students in Charlottesville, Virginia. We see them fall in love and get married and go on road trips and argue and watch TV. The boy-meets-girl stuff might not be anything new, but Sheffield tells the old story with an impressionistic warmth. And so when she dies, it's a sudden jerk out of a hazy dream. It's a hard book to finish."

And if you're still not swayed, consider this: when a hooker recommends a book about love, you should probably listen:

"Romance sucks. That is, the traditional idea of what romance is sucks. Fuck flowers, the best first-date gift I ever got was a book my date thought I would like. Hearts and flowers and carriage rides, that stuff can’t hold a candle to showing up at the emergency room with a book and a clean pair of underwear. Love is in the details, which is why I fell head over heels for Rob Sheffield’s Love is a Mix Tape."

***

I hope you all learn a bit about the stories behind V-Day, and have a lovely Valentine's Day, as well.

Cheers.

Recently a coworker organized an informal night out at a local casino, since we're not content to simply break the cardinal rule of not drinking with your coworkers, oh no. We also like to throw money away with them and watch the intoxicated desperation that that causes, too.

Library people. I don't want to brag, but we're kind of amazing.

In response to the email invitation, one coworker responded (also via email) that he would be unable to make it, and that this made him a "sad panda". Attached was this picture:

Well, shit.

You guys know there's no way I could let that go without a reply. (A reply that involved a panda, of course!) So, also unable to make it to the casino night (grad school and whiskey cost money, you know) I responded to all that I, too, was a sad panda, and added this just to demonstrate:

It quickly spiraled out of control from there, and in a flurry of panda references and pictures, somehow ended up here, at this place we will call AWESOME:

The organizer of the event responded to all of our emails with "This is PANDAMONIUM!!".

(You just laughed out loud, right? No? What's wrong with you? Oh, you're not a dork that chose to work around books because you're socially awkward and prefer inanimate objects to actual human emotion? Well, ok then.)

But at least now can you see why I like to drink with these people? Wait, work with these people. I meant WORK with these people.

...and ok, drink a bit, too. The girl in the photos with me from yesterday's post? A former coworker at the library.

The weekend involved a lot of this:

No, really, a lot:

(I have no idea why my hand is poised oddly in each picture, but I'd be willing to bet that I was trying to steal my friend's drink while she was distracted. It's a move I may be familiar with.)

***

Those pictures should tell you a couple things.

The first is that since it was a girl's night sleepover I didn't feel the need to put on makeup (which I normally do to keep from looking like a corpse), brush my hair, or you know, LOOK AT ALL PRESENTABLE.

The second thing that should be clear is that I get down to business. I don't let a little thing like a camera distract me from my goal: getting fucked up and playing Nintendo. (CHECK and CHECK.)

The person next to me in the photos (who is either giving herself a mustache or just really enjoying her fruity conditioner in the first one) is Stacy. She supplied me with alcohol all night/morning long, and she is awesome (not just for that reason, but it didn't hurt any). She has a blog here that you should visit and leave nice comments on. Bonus points to anyone who leaves one with the words "fo sho".

Checking in to see how I did with the celebratory plans I made yesterday:

Voted: yes

Got shitfaced: very much so. This happening was an absolute definite once the jukebox at the bar played the same song that someone earlier in the day called and played on the piano ON MY VOICEMAIL. Equal parts hilarious and sad.

Flashed: not so much as just got naked, but the end result was the same!

Avoided public urination: Well.

I tried. I really, really did, people. But last night at his apartment the boyfriend did the unthinkable and OPENED THE DOOR WHILE I WAS IN THE BATHROOM. Uh, honey? We are not there yet.

Maybe in oh, 20 YEARS OR SO.

Note to self: when you have to get up at 7am the next day yet still don't feel sleepy by midnight, staying up later, drinking beer, and watching Conan is not as good of an idea as say, going to bed and just trying to sleep.

But there's no way in hell I could have turned off Conan last night. It was like porn, only BETTER: three intelligent, hilarious, men (Conan, Colbert, and Stewart) in lovely dark suits, pretending to beat the crap out of each other. If you missed it last night, I totally just made your day:

Don't you think filming that must have been the most fun EVER? It makes me wish that I had a television show so I could create ridiculous, over-the-top fight scenes like that. Wait, what am I talking about? Who needs a television show (and censors - no thanks!)? I have Vimeo and You Tube, as well as a video camera, and friends that really like to drink. This shit is ON.

***

Note to others: Fat Tuesday and Super Tuesday, though occurring on the same day this year, are not in fact that same thing. One is for getting shitfaced, flashing your tits, and public urination, and the other is for controlling this country's destiny.

I plan to celebrate both events by (go ahead, take a guess) voting, and (hopefully; I have plans with the boyfriend, we'll see) getting shitfaced. And yeah, maybe (hopefully; I have plans with the boyfriend, we'll see) some flashing.

I can say with some certainty that there will, however, be no public urination. But then I never thought I'd throw up in the boyfriend's bed, either, so we'll see!

(Actually, no, I can go ahead and say for sure that public urination absolutely will not happen. I have some lines, few and blurred as they may be, and I'm sorry but THAT IS ONE OF THEM. Hell, I still run the water in the bathroom at his place when I use the restroom.)

(Yes, really.)

Though not a football fan in the least, I totally called the game last night. As did my mom, who is even less of a fan than I am, if that's possible.

But enough about the Superbowl (those two sentences were two too many). The real shit? PUPPY BOWL IV.

Here's my favorite puppy, Scuba (who looks a lot like my little girl did when she was younger) getting called out for being a "dirty dog". Heh.

The Puppy Bowl also featureed a -are you ready for this?- kitty half time show.

Proof that television is good for something.

***

I'm sure that with all of the baby animal posts lately I'm losing my whiskey-drinkin', hijinks-lovin' readers. So this weekend (3-day weekend!) I resolve to skip town, do a shitload of drugs, and shoot a man (hi, sweetheart! Road trip?) just to watch him die.

...Or just have a couple beers, do homework, and sleep in really late.