Dear Cathleen (who asked me about books)

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We were at dinner, two people at a table of seven, trying to make ourselves heard above the uncanny combination of too loud adult good time rock and roll, the roar of the bar crowd watching the basketball game, and the flitting conversations at our table which consisted of, at various times: the approaching Lady GaGa concert, the cost of scalped tickets for said concert, and the content of our meeting earlier in the day. You had remarked you had just purchased a new eReader, and as we compared the differences in e-Ink versus old fashioned paper, and the pros and cons of purchasing nonfiction online, the inevitable question rose up from the bottom of your stomach, through your esophagus and into your mouth, where it gathered strength between the spaces of your teeth before finding its footing at the tip of your tongue to launch forth into the air.

"What's your favorite book?"

I truly, madly, deeply hate that question.

I've often wondered if people who love to read, who relish the feel and look of a word on the page, can really look back into the thousands upon thousands of collected sentences and with utter confidence proclaim this or that work to be the very best book, the single favorite thing they have ever read. I can't do it, at least not with any sense of conviction.  I remember fumbling for a moment, taking a long drought from my pint (Newcastle, since it was the darkest draft they were serving) in an effort to hide my confusion while I fought to come up with an answer.

The first book to come to my head was Huckleberry Finn, so that was what I went with. It's not exactly untrue; I love Mark Twain, and I remember the joy Huckleberry Finn brought me the last time I read it: during the time I spent on a jury for a medical malpractice suit. It was the first book I read after my grandfather died, another man in my family who loved to read unreservedly. I had splurged a bit and bought the Mark Twain Library Edition, fully corrected, illustrated, and authorized by his estate. It was wonderful, and despite having read it at least two times previously, this was the first time I really felt the book, and connected with it on a level that went further than academic enthusiasm.

But my favorite book? Maybe it was in the seconds during and after my gave my answer, but that's not really the answer at all. Because just now, just before I started writing this post in fact, I had decided to re-read Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five, and as I began the first few pages my mind drifted to the last time I had read something by Vonnegut (I think it was Palm Sunday), and how much I cherished every word he wrote, and how to Slaughterhouse Five and Cat's Cradle and Breakfast of Champions are some of the best books I've ever read and...

And so it goes.

The situation repeats itself, each time with a different author, a different work. In college Norman Mailer was a God, and my friend Jason and I would argue over whether Harlot's Ghost was truly better than Ancient Evenings or The Executioner's Song. Every time I see a mention or reference to David Foster Wallace I can't help but think of the colossal achievement that was Infinite Jest, a book whose like will probably never be seen again, and a writer whose suicide shattered me into a million pieces.

So much of my life is measured by books. My fondest memories of my father are bonding with him over JRR Tolkein and Clive Cussler novels, and as a kid there wasn't anything in the world better than a new Dirk Pitt adventure. My friend Mike introduced me in college to a dog-eared collection of short stories by Philip K. Dick, and stories like "The Short Life of the Happy Brown Oxford" and "Second Variety" opened an entire world of literate, charged science fiction from the sixties and seventies that would eventually lead me down an aisle where I chanced upon Harlan Ellison and Deathbird Stories, a book that changed my life. The first real vacation I took with my wife was accompanied by John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany, and my clearest memory of that time was my wife walking into the living room of our suite in the early hours of the morning, the sun coming in from the window and streaming across the couch where I lay crying, having just finished the last pages of the book.

Haruki Murakami and The Windup Bird Chronicle. Italo Calvino and If on a Winter's Night a Traveller. Ed McBain and any of the early 87th Precinct novels. Tom Robbins and Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. And yes, Huckleberry Finn and Slaughterhouse Five and others I'll remember minutes after I click the Publish button, and even more when I come back to proof this post a few days later.

And hopefully a dozen, a hundred more I have yet to read, but wait for me over the next horizon, on the next dusty shelf or the next virtual node.

Cathleen, you asked me an honest question, and in truth I fear I did not give you an honest answer. You asked me for my favorite book, and if I had it to do all over again I would try to give you the only answer I can feel good about, now, a day, a lifetime later.

They're all my favorite. Every single one.

Off to Dallas

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Despite that fact I was only given a few days' notice, and despite the fact I will be doing nothing there other than "letting the people put a face to the name" and "observe and network", I will be travelling to Dallas, Texas to attend my company's National Sales Meeting.

It should be noted that I am not actually in Sales, and the thought of "networking" with sales people and assorted executive types is about as far from what I want out of life as you possibly get, so I'm packing a generous supply of comics, movies, music and books to occupy my down-time while I'm there.  

So for the next several days I'll be active on Twitter posting pics and the odd bit of merriment, and will hopefully have some posts here about what's kept me sane.  Behave yoursevles while I'm away, and remember they can see in if you have the light on.

And Now, Your Moment of Geekiness

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The first couple of images have come out for The Last Airbender: The Legend of Korra, which is NOT the sequel to the craptastic M. Night Shayalaman film, but to the awesome Nickelodeon animated series. Set to arrive in 2012 (just in time for the apocalypse), the miniseries boasts an impessive voice cast and, based on the above image, looks to be pretty sweet.

Geekiness over. We now return you to normalcy.

Winter's Bone | 2010

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WINTER'S BONE was the big surprise of 2010, rightly getting accolades for the performances of John Hawkes and Jennifer Lawrence.  But my first impressions after the credits rolled was just how economical it was.  A shade under 100 minutes, the film wastes very little time propelling you into the heart of the story - 17-year old Ree Dolly (Jennifer Lawrence) has to find her father Jessup, a crank cooker awaiting trial who put the family house and land up for his bond.  Knowing he'll never show up for court, and having to raise her younger brother and sister alone (her mother spends most of the film in a trance-like state), holding on to the the house and property is the only thing keeping Ree and her family from disintegrating.

Everything you need to know about Ree, her family, and the various players who will fade in and out of the story come from this search, and it's a beautiful piece of storytelling from writer/director Debra Granik and her writing partner and producer Anne Rosellini.  Set in the Ozark region of Missouri, WINTER'S BONE takes a simple premise (daughter searches for lost father) and imbues it with a haunting, otherworldly atmosphere by grounding everything in a reality few mainstream moviegoers are familiar with.  The poverty and familial culture represented take on almost classical overtones thanks to the characterizations in the film: Jessup Dolly, the missing father; the mysterious Thump Milton, who runs the crooked kingdom of drugs that the town turns a blind eye to; and of course the vengeful, outcast Teardrop (John Hawkes), Ree's uncle and eventual partner in the search for a brother who may not even be alive. 

It was a foregone conclusion Christian Bale would win the Oscar for best Supporting Actor, but John Hawkes turns in an amazing, subtle and brooding performance, alternating between physically terrifying and introspective, holding every scene he's in with a haunting stare that is captivating to watch.  It's as much a transformation as Bale's; particularly when compared to the first film I saw him in, ME AND YOU AND EVERYONE WE KNOW, where he played a lovesick nebbishy shoe salesman whose arm catches fire.  Here he reminds me of Dennis Hopper, and the climactic scene when the town sheriff pulls Teardrop over is incredible: one of the best fight sequences of the year (Alison Willmore brought this up in her 2010 wrap-up on the IFC News Podcast) without a single punch.

It feels like Jennifer Lawrence sprung out of nowhere to give life to Ree Dolly, a young girl forced to grow up much faster than anyone should have to, raising her siblings and caring for her mother all while to trying to keep food on the table and the influences around her from infecting herself and her family.  Her voice is worn with experience, tired and tough, with no room for negotiation or excuses.  In a film where every face is lined with a million stories, it's impossible to turn away from hers, and Lawrence manages to carry the plot of WINTER'S BONE without having to rely on anything other than her determination to find her father and save her family.

Filmed with a striking grace, with a tight screenplay anchored by two excellent Oscar-nominated performances, WINTER'S BONE may have been the big surprise at the awards ceremony this year (it scraped up four nominations including Best Picture), but to anyone who saw the film it should have come as no surprise at all.  Great movie, and definitely one of the best of 2010.

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