BookSlut

You know, I have decided not to read Blog of a Bookslut anymore. I have enjoyed some of the witticisms and interesting comments of Michael and Jessa, but I’m just damned sick of their book snobbery:

This column by Brian Hennigan makes me want to either move to Scotland or marry Brian Hennigan.

Let me also say that, yes, I have read a Harry Potter book. It was nice enough — for a children’s book. But at no point did I ever think that I was involved in anything other than a book for children….

Adult fiction recognises that the contemporary world is a complex, difficult place with demands on our reasoning that require careful consideration. I have nothing against Harry Potter or any of his genuinely juvenile followers — children should be bursting with juvenility — but his adult disciples are little more than cowardly escapists.

I was getting used to seeing anti-Potterisms from Jessa, but et tu, Michael? Weren’t you the guy who said,

These types of articles usually drive me crazy. It’s medical — pretentious we-know-what’s-good-for-you assholes wringing their hands and asking, “How can we get America to read more William T. Vollmann?” actually give me these weird hives, and I have to get a shot. I kind of feel that if someone wants to read nothing but John Grisham novels, they should just be left the fuck alone. But Newgard is actually charming and tongue-in-cheek enough to pull this off. (Although: Anne Rice’s vampire novels are decent? Really? Ah, well, vive la difference.)

Since both of you are tearing your hair out trying to get the literary establishment to respect graphic novels, you’d think you would both be a bit more open-minded.

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I Really Hate Cars

Life was undoubtedly very hard back in the old days. No convenience. You had to work on your farm during all the hours of daylight. It was difficult to get by. Lots of diseases.

After reading my Grandma Stella’s diary, though, I wish we were back in the horse and buggy days for several reasons. Life was harder, yes, but somewhat less complicated — more focused on getting by day to day.

I also really, really hate cars. Over the past five years, I have had more trouble with cars than I can remember ever having. If I have to drive very far or in the rain, I am literally shaking with fear that I’ll break down. The thing is, right now, my car seems OK. A while ago, when I went to pick up Sarah, I had to drive in the rain, which is something that is always scary to do in Atlanta, and the car was acting… funny. It didn’t act like it wanted to go, and the automatic transmission wasn’t shifting as smoothly as it usually does. So I tried not to hyperventilate.

I know, I know. I have AAA. I also don’t have money for the car to break down right now, but someone would probably help us if it came to that. Just the thought of breaking down one more time was giving me stomach cramps. So many things have gone wrong with the cars I’ve had over the past five years, almost always when I have one or more children with me, from flat tires to complete engine crapout. I shouldn’t be fazed by it anymore. But all that car trouble has only deepened my anxiety behind the wheel.

I wish I could just climb up into my buggy, grab the reins, and say “hyah.” I wish I didn’t really ever have to go more than a few miles from home so hoofing it (whether with a horse or without) wouldn’t be such a terrible outcome.

I know there are other problems I’d have to deal with if I had a horse, but sometimes I can’t help but think all these modern inventions have caused more stress and anxiety than they’re worth in terms of convenience. I somehow doubt my great-great-grandfather had palpitations and gripped the reins tightly if his horse, say, threw a shoe, or something. Maybe that’s why he lived into his 90’s. My damned car will send me to an early grave.

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Percy Bysshe Shelley

Percy Bysshe ShelleyHappy birthday to Percy Bysshe Shelley, who was born on this day in 1792.

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap’d for the beloved’s bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.


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Go Ask Alice

Did you read Go Ask Alice when you were young? You know, the “true” diary of a girl’s spiral into addiction ending in death?

Random surfing at Snopes.com has revealed to me that this diary is a fake!

I don’t know. I just feel like my whole world has been turned upside down. Everything I thought was true might be wrong. It sort of makes you question your whole life — like that guy who finally tried Luzianne tea after a lifetime of Lipton.

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