Ah, books. If I’m not buying them on impulse, they’re being given by friends. In any case, they keep on piling up. I’m not complaining, though. When it comes to books, I’m an unapologetic hoarder.
- The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen. His name keeps popping up on the Tumblr blogs I regularly visit, so I figure he must be something. Also: A friend highly recommends him. I trust her because she has nice legs. Yeah.
- Native Tongue by Carl Hiaasen. I’ve read two Hiaasen books and LOL’d at both of them. I want a third serving… and perhaps more. Why not?
- Spanking the Donkey: Dispatches from the Dumb Season by Matt Taibbi. One of the reasons why I read Rolling Stone is Matt Taibbi. His polemical articles on politics and media are somewhat reminiscent of the late Hunter S. Thompson’s ruthless gonzo attacks. Authors with balls, I’ll devour ‘em like pies (um, that sounds gay, right? But whatever, man). Devil’s Horn to Boojie Basilio for giving me his extra copy of this.
- “A Dance With Dragons” by George R.R. Martin. I’m a big fan of the A Song of Ice and Fire book series. ‘Nuff said.
One day I’ll be old and decrepit and useless, but not bored. What did the ants teach the grasshopper again?
Karl Roy, 1968-2012
Something weird happened to me today.
I was on board a tricycle on my way to work when I was suddenly gripped by fear of death so strong I couldn’t shake it off. It was a stray feeling that left me depressed and totally freaked out at the thought that one day I’ll leave this world for good, and there’ll be nothing but darkness. No wind, no sound. Just darkness. Forever and ever.*
I was still freaking out when a friend texted me about Karl Roy’s death. Cardiac arrest, he said. 43 years old.
It was a bleak nine-hour grind at the office.
*The religious could argue about the afterlife, about an everlasting existence with God and His angels, and on a normal day I would believe them. But on a day like today, with overcast sky and rain threatening to taint summer, there’s hardly any room in my head for butterflies and sunshine. Forgive me.
I really, really want to say that I enjoyed The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. David Fincher directed it, Trent Reznor scored it, and there are lots of amazing snow shots that make me want to experience winter in Europe. And yet I can’t. Try as I might, I just can’t bring myself to say that the movie blew me away like, say, The Social Network, where Fincher and Reznor first collaborated.
I think the problem has more to do with the time and condition I was in when I watched the movie than the movie itself. It was way past Saturday midnight, I just came from a wake and was up the previous night beating a deadline, and the movie is freaking two hours and thirty minutes long with little to no high-octane action. (Car chases? Exploding trains? They’re as fresh as yesterday’s turd, but sometimes they still work.) Even the rape of Rooney Mara, definitely the most disturbing scene in the movie, failed to jolt me to wakefulness.
Still, the movie is as dark and bleak as only Fincher could deliver. I intend to watch this again soon.