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Funny thing happened when I stopped posting 16/7 on a message board (11pm – 7am is AAl’s time): I started reading books again.  Not just the ones with pictures and word balloons, but actual, proper books.

    Now, this is almost certainly something that you, with your normal human brain, take for granted.  But it’s always been a struggle for me to pick up a stack of pages with words on them, run my eyes across those words and keep doing it till I’ve absorbed all of them in the stack.  My brain is a bit of an idea slut — the notion of staying tied down to a single idea for any length of time is repulsive to it.    

But somehow I managed to whip that useless thought organ into a little temporary monogamy (not once, but twice!) this past week.  The only real thing these two books have in common is that they were recommended by my pal sleep (this is the online handle he has chosen —apart from the brief time he changed it to sleep apnea to mock me — and I am honoring his choice not to capitalize it), who easily has the most winning record of anyone who suggests entertainment to me. 

   First up was Syrup, by Maxx Barry.  Syrup tells the tale of “Scat,” a young man awash in the sleazy world of corporate marketing.  (Everyone in the story has names like this.  It’s a marketing gag, and it’s not even as distracting as I thought it might be, considering the primary players are called Scat, Sneaky Pete, 6 and @.)  

 Syrup  reminded me a lot of Thank You for Smoking, and since that’s one of my all-time favorite books, I mean that with love.  Like Christopher Buckley, Barry makes us care about the sleaze merchant he’s chosen as his protagonist.  In a way, it’s sort of refreshing to follow a character almost entirely devoid of conscience — I often find it easier to relate to than attempting to force myself to feel the compassion and other human emotions of so-called “real” heroes.  Plus, you know, it’s satire.   

Syrup is written in a fantastically ADDish style that consists of very short sort-of sub-chapters sprinkled in with related facts about marketing and often telling titles.  If I were more literary, I’d know what the name for this sort of thing is (post-modern?  Fuck  if I know).  I just know it’s an effective way to market (hey!) a book to someone like me.  Reminds me a bit of Palahniuk or Mark Leyner, but again… not in a bad way.    

Anyway… it’s about this guy who comes up with the perfect new product for Coca Cola: basically the same old Coca Cola in a sleek, black can, with the name Fukk.  Hilarity ensues. And apparently there’s a movie on the way.  Should be interesting.  

 The other thing I read was Norton Juster’s The Phantom Tollbooth. Being, as it is, a kids’ book, I flew through this one pretty quickly, but it was still a lot of fun.  I’ve actually had this book for years, but only finally just got around to picking it up.  Apparently, someone who read my novel saw some similarities between the two.  I think I found a passage that might kinda be what the guy was talking about, but I can’t be sure.  But hey, if this is the sort of thing my writing makes you think of… I can’t complain.

    It’s a pretty typical fantastic journey into wondrous lands, but it doesn’t feel clichéd or unoriginal here.  There’s lots of wordplay and lots of bizarre logic.  I wish I’d found this when I was, say, 10 or so, because this sort of thing would have really played with my head in a fun way.  As an adult I can still appreciate what’s going on here, mind you.  I just think it’d be a blast with the still-maturing understanding of an adolescent.

    My only real complaint (and I’m sure I’m breaking with the pack here, but fuck those guys) is the artwork.  I guess it’s supposed to be charmingly simple, but I just found it simple.  It looks, at best, like unfinished sketches.  At its worst, it looks like something I could draw.  And I can’t draw.  I make the computer do it for me. 

 I would like to see the Chuck Jones movie of the book, but apparently it’s out of print. Anyway, fun little book, even for a cynical grown-up.  If I didn’t loathe children and all they stand for, I might have one and force them to read this.

I kinda went into this one with low expectations.  I’ve been a big fan of Warren Ellis’ work in comics over the last few years (notable standouts being Transmetropolitan, Planetary, Nextwave and Fell), but in recent months he’s become a bit of a parody of himself in my eyes.  The regular “Bad Signal” e-mails he sends out were filled with little more than him complaining about his health problems and dreading public appearances (aw, poor you — success is so terrible), and he’s launched three or four different comics titles that seem like basically the same old thing he’s done already and haven’t really seemed to go anywhere.  So when I heard he had a novel out, I dutifully picked the thing up when it was released (to show my support) and threw it on a shelf for later consideration.

Some time passed, and my “burned out on Warren Ellis” feelings faded a bit.  So I picked it up and gave it a chance.  And I immediately found myself wishing I’d done so months ago, because really, this is exactly the sort of book I used to read when I was reading regularly.  It’s intelligent and darkly satirical, it’s weird but not inaccessible and it doesn’t give you a hundred thousand insignificant details to memorize rather than just jumping right to the point.

Sure, there’s the occasional passage in which Ellis takes his over-the-top act a little too far over-the-top (particularly when criticizing post-9-11 America), but these instances are outweighed by what’s actually a pretty solid read.  The story (such as it is) is the typical “noir-style detective gets hired by a powerful client to locate an impossible artifact,” but that’s all pretty incidental in the grand scheme. What it really is is Ellis’ analysis of modern culture: the impact of mass communications on our daily lives and the mainstreaming of previously deviant ideas.

But beyond that, even, Crooked Little Vein is really just an excuse for Ellis to lead us through the skeevy sexual underbelly of America.  I can think of no better tour guide than the guy who (as far as I know) coined the expression “dad paste dispenser.”  If anyone can make me read several chapters involving men who inject their testicles with saline, it’s Warren Ellis.  And that’s probably the highest praise I can offer.

Half of Reaper Man was the best Discworld book I’ve read yet. The other half, while not terrible, was one of the worst.

This book falls into the unfortunate trap of alternating between two tangentially, but almost entirely not, related plots. The primary plot, for which the book earns its title, involves Death (perhaps the only character to appear in every book in the series) and a bit of cosmic-level political intrigue that results in his being fired from his job as the anthropomorphic representation of mortality. With only a short time remaining in his — er, life — Death takes on the (hastily constructed) identity of Bill Door, a farm hand in an obscure region of the Disc.

And those scenes involving “good old Bill Door” are top notch. “Bill” does farm work. “Bill” enjoys a pint down at the pub. “Bill” deals with a child who can see that he’s a “skellington.” And “Bill” falls in love. It’s quite touching, without managing to dip into pure sap, watching Death realize what it means to be human. The book really needed more of this.

Instead, the other half of Reaper Man deals with the consequences that come about during the period in which Death is not actually collecting souls. This, in itself, is a perfectly fine idea for a B-story, and should complement the primary action nicely. But somehow, even though we get off on the right foot (following the undead afterlife of elderly wizard Windle Poons), we end up mired in much the same area that plagued Moving Pictures: trying to shove modern ideas into the decisively medieval setting of the Discworld.

This is not to say that modern ideas can’t work in these books. The (apparently faithful, and also quite good) BBC adaptation of Hogfather featured a computer, which seemed plausible enough in Discworld logic. And the “in-sewer-ants” bit in the early books was freakin’ hilarious. But something about a city full of shopping carts and a creepy otherworldly shopping mall… well, it just didn’t work for me.

Not all of the B-story is a waste, though. We meet a fair amount of interesting (and apparently relevant later on) characters along Windle’s strange journey, including an odd assortment of dysfunctional monsters. And Windle himself is not an uninteresting character. It’s just that I kept wishing for Death when I was reading these scenes.

Special attention should be brought to Nigel Planer, the primary voice of the unabridged Discworld audio books. I’ve actually been experiencing most of these books via these audio versions, and Planer is by far the best of the lot they have reading them. His reads of both Death and Unseen University’s librarian (the emotions he manages to convey using only the word “ook” are amazing) are, to my mind, the definitive versions of what they sound like. Reaper Man in particular featured well over a dozen characters in addition to the usual number of incidentals, and, remarkably, Planer lends a distinctive voice and the appropriate mannerisms to every single one of them. It can’t be easy work being a one-man radio drama. Well done, sir.

I have a bit of a strange relationship with the phenomenon that is Woody Allen. As a comedy writer and student of things comedic, I want to enjoy his films. I recognize the talent contained within, and I actually kinda dig those pre-Annie Hall flicks, when he was just plain silly and didn’t whine quite so much.

But much like Quentin Tarantino, Allen thinks that because we enjoy his words, we must also therefore enjoy his presence. It only took Tarantino a few films to work out that we’d rather he stay behind the camera and shut up. Allen doesn’t seem to have learned this lesson still, after over thirty years of onscreen neurosis. And so, the vast majority of his ouvre remains unwatched by me, for fear of otherwise good writing being ambushed by the irritating little dude.

But this book — a collection of three comedic volumes he put together in the sixties and seventies — is the perfect forum for appreciating his genuine comedic talents. Addressing a broad range of topics from history to philosophy to various aspects of high culture, The Complete Prose of Woody Allen serves up Dave Barry-esque 3-page essays that you can’t help laughing at.

Yes, I realize this volume predates Barry’s column. But I suspect you’ve read more essays by Dave Barry than you have by Woody Allen. He’s become sort of the gold standard of short essay writing. Unfortunately, much as I did with the columns of Dave Barry, I found myself growing a bit tired of the same basic setup/payoff after a prolonged exposure to this material. It’s probably not best consumed in large chunks, since it’s easier to see the patterns (and therefore see the punchlines coming) this way. No, this book would probably be best served in the magazine rack next to your toilet. And that’s not an insult at all.

Probably the most hilarious bit, worth the price of admission by itself, is Allen’s take on the Old Testament:

And so he [Abraham] took Isaac to a certain place and prepared to sacrifice him but at the last minute the Lord stayed Abraham’s hand and said, “How could thou doest such a thing?”

And Abraham said, “But thou said—”

“Never mind what I said,” the Lord spake. “Doth thou listen to every crazy idea that comes thy way?” And Abraham grew ashamed. “Er—not really… no.”

“I jokingly suggest thou sacrifice Isaac and thou immediately runs out to do it.”

And Abraham fell to his knees, “See, I never know when you’re kidding.”

Remember before, when I said that each Discworld book is basically about the same? Same level of quality and entertainment, same difficult-to-dissect sort of fun? Well, unfortunately, Moving Pictures is the first world set on Terry Pratchett’s Discworld to fall (pardon the pun) flat.

It’s not that it doesn’t feature interesting characters — old favorites like Unseen University’s simian librarian, Detritus the Troll, street vendor Cut Me Own Throat Dibbler and the ever-present Death join a handful of new faces, and they’re likable as ever. And there’s nothing inherently unlikable about the new folk either. In fact, I found myself wishing that Gaspode the Wonder Dog made a future appearance in the series, and apparently I at least have that to look forward to.

The thing is, Discworld books usually find a way to turn typical fantasy conventions around into something new and fun, and make a few scathing social statements along the way. Unfortunately, Moving Pictures just falls back on that same clichéd story we’ve all heard a hundred thousand times: Hollywood is magical, greedy people ruin the creative process. Okay, I get it.

It seems that every writer who ever succeeded in his medium enough to gain the attention of Hollywood has a story like this in them — as if they really think we’ll all be completely captivated by their hapless fish out of water experiences dealing with studio executives and jaded performers. And sure, maybe once, back when D.W. Griffith was still producing films, this was an interesting tale. But we’ve all heard it, and we all know how it ends. Sure, Pratchett serves up the usual Discworld trappings in his “Holy Wood” tale (it is rather clever how his alchemists use established Discworld photography technology to create movies), but the result is largely the same. And just like all the other stories that came before it, it’s a struggle to convince myself that I care.

There are, as I mentioned, some saving graces to the otherwise uncharacteristically dull story — the aforementioned Gaspode (a talking dog who may be the smartest Discworld character to date), for instance. A few of the “Holy Wood” variations on well-known films are worth a snicker or two. And apparently, the colorful new Archchancellor of Unseen University, making his first appearance here, becomes a permanent part of the tapestry in stories to come.

And if nothing else, that tapestry does help keep things from falling apart completely. Cameos from prior heroes (Colon and Nobby from Guards, Guards!) and passing references to other assorted elements (Lady Ramkin, the pyramids of Tsort) at least lend weight to the idea that Pratchett is busily constructing a larger world for these stories to inhabit. So, if nothing else, Moving Pictures does deliver some fairly decent characters and an ever-widening scope of scenery. It’s just lacking a bit in the plot department. But then, maybe that’s the grand irony of a story about Hollywood.

Or maybe this one’s just — wossname — a dud.

I was a bit disappointed when I saw how short Eric was — only about 150 pages (3 and a half hours in unabridged audiobook form), compared to the 3-400 pages/7-8 hours that the others before and after it. But sometimes, I suppose, a story is only as long as it needs to be, and this one didn’t feel especially short from the inside.

Apparently, many of the books in this series form sort of sub-series, concentrating on specific characters. I haven’t gotten far enough to read more than one book about the Ankh-Morpork night watch yet (though I look forward to it), nor the coven of witches in the Ramtops (also highly anticipated), but I have read several involving the cowardly would-be wizard, Rincewind.

When we last saw Rincewind at the end of Sourcery, he was being uncharacteristically noble in some demon dimension someplace. Not too shockingly, Pratchett felt the need to rescue his unhero so that he could live to run another day. And so sets up the events in Eric, in which an adolescent demonologist (the titular “Eric,” whose name has been hastily scrawled over a scribbled out “Faust” on the front cover) inadvertently summons Rincewind and demands the requisite three wishes from him.

Hilarity, naturally, ensues. The thing about these Discworld books, as I have observed in the past, is that it’s a bit difficult to discuss them after the fact. They are, for the most part, light reading, though this is not to say that they are in any way devoid of satirical social commentary or complexity of a sort. It’s just that Pratchett really seems to have the whole thing down to the point where not much more really needs to be said beyond the actual contents of the book. It’s rather like trying to deconstruct an episode of The Simpsons — you could do it, but it would sort of take all the fun out of it. And the internet certainly has its fill of that sort of person already, thank you very much.

One of the best things Pratchett does is cover ground that you think is obliterated beyond all possibility of freshness and extract some new thing that seemed completely obvious, yet hasn’t been done yet. Because, let’s face it, the basic story here — raising a demon and dealing with the consequences of ill-conceived wishes — is not exactly the most original. But then, neither was anything Shakespeare did. Or any of our modern geek heroes, for that matter. It takes a special kind of writer to breathe new life into the tired cliches, and Pratchett is exactly that kind of writer.

I can also thank him for permanently lodging the word “wossname” into my lexicon.

I have my ex to thank for introducing me to Christopher Moore, by way of another book of his, Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal. That book was quite good, but let’s be honest — a comedic book about Christ is a bit like shooting Jesus fish in a barrel. It’s not exactly a challenge to find decent material.

I suppose vampires are a pretty well-worn area as well, though it’s interesting to note that Bloodsucking Fiends was published a couple of years before Buffy and Angel made very effective light of the subject. What’s also interesting, along similar lines, is a scene in a “vampire support group” (from which the book’s title is derived), where a couple of degenerates are depicted as support group-hopping for a cheap thrill and the possibility of a date. Whether Chuck Palahniuk appropriated this idea for Fight Club, or the opposite, or if it’s just a big coincidence is unclear. It almost reads as a winking reference at this point, so it doesn’t really matter.

This is a fun, light read — not a lot of laugh-out-loud moments, but Moore really has a way of getting you interested in his characters. And it is from their oddities that the more subtle comedy shines through. Over Bloodsucking Fiends’ 300 pages, we follow the adventures of would-be author and San Francisco neophyte C. Thomas Flood, who works the graveyard shift at Safeway with a Dirty Dozen-style bunch of misfits called The Animals. Tom hooks up with Jody, a recently converted vampire with relationship issues. Oh, and the Emperor of the United States also plays a fairly large role.

It ain’t deep and it ain’t laugh-a-minute, but it’s still some of the most entertaining reading I’ve done in quite awhile. I’ll certainly be chasing down Moore’s other works, and I eagerly await this book’s sequel, which is due early next year.

This book walked a very narrow line, and did it very well. On the one hand, it could have gotten way too pedantic in an attempt to appeal to as large an audience as possible. After all, comics didn’t get their dumbed-down reputation from nowhere. Thankfully, this book is not at all “comic bookish.” It’s also not pretentious, which any serious work of analysis can be. No, this porridge is just right.

Fingeroth covers a lot of ground, and delivered more than one psychological or sociological point that made me go “hmm.” For instance, he compares the plight of Superman (strange being from another world becomes superhero) to that of the American immigrant. That had never really occured to me before, but it’s definitely not a stretch, especially when you consider that Big Blue was created by two Jewish guys in the 30s. Something tells me that the concept of immigration wasn’t too far from their minds at the time.

He also points out something else I never noticed before — the idea that most of the major heroes (Superman, Batman, Spider-man) are orphans. This, he suggests, plays into the basic desire (conscious or otherwise) by children to be something more than they appear to be. What child wouldn’t want to be told that the people who grounded him last night are not his real parents, but that he’s really an alien with laser eyes who can fly and see through walls?

There’s a lot of other stuff here too (including a look at the world of female superheroes, in which he rightly includes Buffy), but I think you get the basic idea. As a guy writing superhero stories, this was an excellent look into an angle of the genre that I’d never explored before.

Kurt Busiek (of Astro City and several other well-written comics) claims this is the book (and just to clarify, it is a short novel, not a comic) that started the whole “superhero deconstruction” thing, well before Watchmen or The Dark Knight Returns.

I don’t see it. Okay, I can see how it treats superheroes differently than they had been treated to that point — the story centers around a Superman-type character who has retired and has the usual midlife impotence (loss of super-powers) issues.

Thing is, it’s a comedy and it’s not that funny. The author’s favorite thing to do is name his characters after real people. Like a bartender named Gerald Ford, or a secretary named Marilyn Monroe. (Okay, I think the secretary was named Norma Jean Baker… same difference.) It’s sort of a parody of Superman, only he mentions Superman as a distinct character existing in the same world. It’s not really solid parody or satire… just some half-decent ideas strung together by less-than-half-funny jokes.

Okay, there are some good bits, don’t get me wrong. There’s a Catcher in the Rye reference that was really clever, and other small gags that worked out really well. Also, there are some pretty steamy sex scenes, but mixed in with the comedy and superhero adventure stuff, they made me feel sort of awkward for some reason.

Overall, I don’t get why this book is supposed to be so revolutionary. And it’s not just Busiek who says so — according to the foreword and back cover quotes, such comic book luminaries as Grant Morrison, Neil Gaiman and Alan Moore were all inspired by Superfolks. J. Michael Straczynski almost certainly borrowed a character — an eastern European “tailor to the heroes” — for his Amazing Spider-man. Oh, and Dave Gibbons (Alan Moore’s artist on Watchmen) did the cover for this new (2003) reprint edition. So this book comes highly recommended. Maybe I’m just missing something.