Worlds Keep Turning

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It's been a while, hasn't it?

This past month or so have been a real blog killer, which is sad since the one thing I wanted to commit to was to get back to writing about my life and the things the touch it.  Thing is, all those things that touch it?  They kind of all touched at once (which sounds kid of obscene, but isn't) and it's been one thing after another until now.

I just got my son down for his nap.  As soon as he wakes up we're heading up to my in-laws where my wife has basically lived for the past week helping to prepare for some serious Thanksgiving eating.  It typically devolves pretty quickly into a clanging, screaming mess with people sprawled everywhere, bloated and cranky, but it's tradition and I'm thankful I can be a part of it.

Life in the past two months has been a series of ups and downs.  Starting with the downs, after finally coming to the realization that it wasn't all right that my weight was ballooning to unheard of numbers (for me, anyway), I finally decided with a friend to bear down and start to exercise and diet.  Right now I'm about 15 pounds lighter, which sounds good until I realize I probably was about 20 pounds lighter a couple of weeks ago, but have been gaining it back.

Reason?  One of the "up" things in my life. Realizations have been coming hard and fast lately, and I finally realized that I was tired of my job, which for the past three years consisted of the same thing, only with the added "bonus" of doing more of it in less time.  So for the past month I went through a lengthy interview process which resulted in a new position in the company:  more responsibility, new challenges, new prestige.

No money, and the only "promotion" was a desk move to the top floor with the bigwigs.  I was told if I work hard enough, within a year I might get a spot right at the top.  I can only assume they're referring to the roof, since the idea of actually giving me money that equals the job I perform went out with parachute pants and those little egg toys you had to take care lest they beep at you.

I've also began to tentatively dip my toe into Zen Buddhism.  The reasons are my own, but I will say that it's giving me a lot to think about, and the practice of sitting zazen is painful, annoying, and often downright evil, which tells me I'm at least doing it right, according to the writings that keep with the Soto tradition (long story short, there are as I understand it, essentially two schools of Zen - Rinzai and Soto.  The Rinzai believe the the practice of zazen leads to enlightenment, whereas the Soto school doesn't put a whole lot of stock into enlightenment - the practice is its own end.  I'm definitely not into this for the enlightenment).   

And that's it.  A lot to take care of before leaving, but I wasn't enjoying the lack of any new content here for so long.  When I have some time I'll come bak and wax a little more eloquently as opposed to the vomit spill this was.  In the meantime you may have noticed that I joined the millions of people on Twitter.  I popped a little custom banner at the top of the page that will keep my latest tweet (oh, God, I can't believe I just wrote that) viewable so it doesn't feel like I've completely abandoned the place.

And that's really it (for reals, now).  Whoever you Are reading this, and wherever you are, regardless of whether or not you celebrate Thanksgiving, I'm thankful you're here, and thankful that I had this chance to say something.

Now go do something nice for somebody.

The Hippopotamus | Stephen Fry

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English comedy is something I grew up with.  While other kids in my neighborhood were having a good catch with their All-American Dads, my father (a transplant from Germany since the late 1950s)brought me up on a steady diet of Benny Hill and Monty Python.

So although it may not come as a huge surprise that I would know and appreciate Stephen Fry's work in television comedy, it was a surprise (to me, anyway) at how affecting he can be when it comes to fiction.  You would think that someone whose comedic fame stems from his erudition would of course work well on the page, but all too often what you end up reading feels like a too long stand-up routine.  And The Hippopotamus, his second novel after The Liar, published in 1993, does feel a little like that, at least in the beginning.  Notorious drunk/womanizer/poet Ted Wallace is called upon by his god-daughter Jane to look into Lord Logan Swafford and family, where something miraculous may be happening.  Jane won't tell Ted what, but she does tell him that until very recently she was in the late stages of leukemia, and that something having to do with the Swaffords may be the cause of her remission.  Something, specifically, with Ted's other god-child, young David Swafford.

The beginning of The Hippopotamus reads like the inside of Fry's head - long vignettes that are witty but leave little to push things along.  Once he settles into a groove, though, the self conscious "Fry" voice goes away and in its place is something that works much better - a compassionate voice that cares more about telling a great story as opposed to showing off.  It's wonderful work, and as Ted slowly becomes tied into events at the Swafford house, you really to see the care Fry puts into his characters.  You also get to see a big old heart laid open, as sex jokes and uncomfortable passages (yes, there may be sex with animals here, but I'm judging) give way to some genuine insights into how we create our own miracles, often at the expense or detriment of others.

A fantastic book that's gotten me up and hunting around for more of Fry's written work.  Until then, my trusty DVD of Jeeves and Wooster will have to do.

Shelf of Fame Part Deux

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...is up over at Un:Bound.  Books 6-10 cover a range of books, from the "narrative nonfiction" of In Cold Blood to the clever wordplay of Ella Minnow Pea.

Also up this week (aren't I the verbose one this week?) is my review of The Yiddish Policemen's Union by Michael Chabon.  I love a novel that's clever, literate, and a page-turner - this is one of those books.

Thought of the Day:  Driving to the office this morning, watching the leaves swirl across the road and the skies turn my favorite shade of gray, I realized that this was the first time I could look out and think the skies were Bergman.  Igmar, not Katherine, although wouldn't that be cool?

The Yiddish Policemen's Union

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There was a small outcry when The Yiddish Policemen's Union took not only the 2007 Hugo for Best Novel, but also the Nebula and Locus awards. Although it takes place in an alternate universe where the state ofIsrael is smashed after WWII and the main action takes place in Sitka, Alaska, a Jewish territory soon to fall back under American control (similar to the Hong Kong/China situation ten years ago) - it's not like it was recognizable as a science fiction or fantasy novel.

And of course it was also written by Michael Chabon, "slumming" it after writing a small novel called The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, which went on to win a small award known as the Pulitzer.  Who was this guy to come in and steal all the hard-working real SF&F writers' thunder?

Simple.  Like the best writers, Chabon is someone who simply refuses to work in easy categorizations.  He's written contemporary literature (Kavalier & Clay, Wonder Boys), YA fantasy (Summerland), serialized fiction (Gentlemen of the Road) and copious amounts of nonfiction.  All his writing  - The Yiddish Policemen's Union included - have one major thing in common: all are written with a care and passion that make them as exhilarating and exquisitely readable as they are literate and "mature"...a combination, I should add, that's a sure sign to get noticed, hence the myriad of awards.

So think of The Yiddish Policemen's Union as Raymond Chandler filtered through the Coen Brother's A SERIOUS MAN.  Meyer Landsman used to be the best detective on the force, but a dissolved marriage and too many sips of the bottle have left him tired and beaten in a ramshackle hotel, a month away from being evicted when Sitka reverts back to American control.  When one of his neighbors, a junkie chess prodigy, is murdered things turn into something far more sinister as Meyer is warned off the case - first by his ex-wife and now boss, and then from the Jewish mafia.  But the sleeping giant that is Meyer's detective skills can't let it lie, and so begins a classic noir mystery that involves metal institutions, the possible return of the Messiah, and a chess problem that may be the key to the whole riddle.

Chabon writes with a fast dry wit that's instantly recognizable - both from Chandler's hard boiled Philip Marlowe stories and from a lifetime of imitation in the movies.  The trick of the novel lies in the inventive wordplay centered around (you guessed it) Yiddish, and the rituals and foibles of both a religion and humanity at large.  There are times I laughed out loud, and other times when my heart reached out to Landsman as he struggles to turn his life around in the midst of the investigation.

Fantastic on all counts, The Yiddish Policemen's Union is great alternate history, a great mystery  put together in the classic style, and great literature.  Books like this are a no-brainer, and winning so many prestigious genre awards means that people who wouldn't normally go for Chabon because he's not technically a "sci-fi" or fantasy writer might just give him a shot.

Do it - you won't be sorry.