7: Balls

What sheer childish, impish joy it is to call a book for adults Balls. Now, maybe normally this is the sort of book I would prefer to sniff and snide about, but hey, I practically learned to read from this thing. Well, not this one--unless this copy had some sort of amazing journey from a Mississippi public library to a used book sale in Amarillo, TX. You know what...new thought. Why did the Greenville, MS public library carry the 1984 memoir of a New York Yankees third basemen who was connected by no notable thread to the South at all?

Graig, subject and ghosted for author, was indeed one of those error ridden birth certificate babies doomed to a life of reaffirming his name just that one time too many in every possible conversation. "Why, no, we do not have a reservation for a Graig; however, we do have a Craig for the same time...perhaps you two could sit together and share funny name stories, yes?"

Mr. Nettles was also one of those rare individuals who was not only funny by the lower standards of celebrity or athletes, but humorous in a real direct fashion. Here are a couple of selections:

"People recognize me wherever I go, where it used to be just New York. I guess people who aren't even baseball fans watch the World Series. I was driving down the freeway in Los Angeles over the winter and a guy pulled up next to me and gave me the finger."

Upon batting against quirky Mark Fidrych who spoke to his pitches before releasing, Graig reportedly said to his bat, "Never mind what he says to the ball--hit it over the outfield fence!" Nettles struck out. "Damn," he said. "Japanese bat. Doesn't understand a word of English."

6: White Witch Doctor

Ah, it's got that sort of gotcha moment 'cause it says "White" witch doctor. Oh, you is so raycess.* That's how you move books, says the publisher in my head that talks like Daniel Tosh, is with a gotcha moment.

I don't know. There's something about this one...that old musty smell from whatever that lesser type of paper that used to be used, or the red edged paper which reminds me of nothing more than the stacks of old romance that lined the edges of my mother's bed. Now, I wasn't allowed to read those. Thinking back, I'm not sure if it was because of my age, or just possessiveness. Maybe it was just one of those gender roles being preached like how I was also not supposed to read Nancy Drew when God hath made the separate but equal Hardy Boys.

Little things make little breaks. Of all the fissures and cracks of my mind, this is maybe bottom five. Whenever I see one of these red edged books I, just for a second, wonder how I managed get it. I'm not allowed right, mommy? There's bigger breaks from the casual mishandling of parenting, but something like this is a reminder.

*The more phonetically pleasing rendition of "racist."

5: "I Can See You Naked"

Another one of those library finds that has been handled so many times for all the same reasons. Walking, passing, and looking when suddenly a book shouts NAKED! You turn, you stare a little, look around more than a little...you have to be alone to look at NAKED stuff, and then you nonchalantly pick it up. "Why, I'll just take a peek at this NAKED stuff, as I am a grown up allowed to look at grown up things."

No, it's just another book about public speaking. Stupid, stupid library for making me care for a moment. Damn you. Tonight, tonight...I pray for budget cuts.

Also, who can take a book seriously when the title is in quotes? Sarcastic ass publishers...

4: Plant Consciousness, Plant Care

When you don't just love your plants, but you respect them. All of which leads me to imagine sun dried "mystics" in Santa Fe or Taos proclaiming that their fern thinks he's people.

Now this isn't a new book, as if one couldn't tell from the Hobbit excerpt for a cover, so I was interested to see if anyone still practices this sort of...well I don't want to say delusion as I want something funnier to fill the space, but since I can't this sort of rambling will have to do.

Now it's not fair to hold what the Google tells you against someone/something, but when the first result from "plant consciousness" is a site that looks preserved from the wild internets of 1996 and the very first sentence on it is "Plant consciousness has long been seen by many as a crazy idea proliferated by hippies and the such like," well...sometimes it's fair. Also, I love the phrase "the such like." Another also, a random page presented this beginning sentence, "Talk to your plants, but also listen." Fuck these weirdos.

Final bit is of history. This book, from 1973, came from a brief era of Quadrangle Publishing after the smaller Chicago press was bought by the NY Times, but before it was renamed Times Books.

3: The Darker Brother

Okay, guessing time! Now, was the author a Midwestern whitey, son of a lumberjack, or was he an urban black fellow, first PhD graduate of Johns Hopkins? Since there is nothing at all misleading about my left of somber tone, “Bucklin Moon” is of course white. Actually, that’s his real name…well, the complete form is Bucklin Renssalear Moon which is even more outrageous and makes me question the validity of some group of people’s mind. I’m just not sure if it’s a general American fault, Midwestern originality (on the coasts, that translates into “wacky”), or, more specifically, a Wisconsin peculiarity.

So, this son of a lumberjack, in Wisconsin remember, parlays a college friendship with Zora Neale Hurston* into what was obviously an acceptable amount of cred as regards the African-American. Not only did he write the then acclaimed Darker Brother, but he also penned a Primer for White Folks. Pretty sure just the existence of these two justifies/explains at least 45% of Kanye West.

First note about the book—that big blurb on the back cover. “Born the wrong color” All in red. So right away you’re thinking raycess**, right? Oh no, Bantam Books covered that adding, in a way smaller and not red font, “…they said.” Ah, so Bantam and/or Bucklin aren’t raycess; it’s other people! That’s clear.

Second note. The back cover description ends with a segment of the Chicago Sun review…”has a far more telling and lasting impact than a dozen tales of horror.” You may not be aware, but the book review standard of expressing the value of a high work of literature in terms of horror novels began here. From the 2007 New York Times review of Thousand Splendid Suns, “worth at least three Stephen King Christine’s and one random Dean Koontz.”

Final note. Oh you better believe Bucklin wrote in sorta black “slang.” Sample sentence from the last page; “We liable tuh get knots beat all over the top uh our heads.” Nothing else I can say.

*No jokes here, I love Their Eyes Were Watching God.
**”Raycess” being the more phonetically pleasing form of “racist”.

2: An observation at a local library

Okay, obviously I found the kinda thin book about the achievements of African-Americans first and then, just as apparent, spent about an hour searching a five story university library for the funniest comparison companion. As I recall, the other finalists was a book about bridges and a compendium of the works of some (relatively) obscure artist. It wasn’t Yves Klein, but it was that sorta ballpark. You know, the kind of guy maybe you know if you took some art classes and fancied yourself as an artist for a couple of winters (as an artist you must adopt several affectations and one of mine was calling years as several of whichever season fit my mood or occasion. This is absolute fiction.) or if you run a gallery. Otherwise, it’s just about impossible to know who he is. Also, if you do know who Yves Klein* is and have a sense of humor outside of art appreciation then the very idea of a book dedicated to his masterpieces is heavy funny stuff indeed.

Okay, assuming that a soup recipe is physically equal to an African-American achievement in font size and page count, then there are about 263 African-American achievements or about 3.8 soups for each achievement. This is merely a calculation of mathematics and not morality. I mean, yeah sure, the library is probably making a comment here but that reflects on their raycess** asses.

*He is most famous for a series of solid blue paintings in specific hue of blue he credits himself as inventing. Whatever the art world version of being baller is, then that situation is totally it.

**This is the more phonetically enjoyable variation of racist. Try it! That dude in the white robes with the cross is totally raycess!

1: The Yes Girl

Sluts, slutty slut-like sluts. Here, we’re talking about Gwen. You see, Gwen just doesn’t know how to say no. In fact, “Can she ever say no?” See those oh so coy eyes? Perhaps you think, oh that’s just an innocent YA novel from the 1980s you’re twisting nastily into a particularly single entendre. Oh, I know what would convince you—irresponsibly edited back blurbs!

“Gwen has time for everyone...she says yes to Susan…YES to any friend who needs “help”…even a yes to nice but boring Mitch. When he asks her out, Gwen says yes…with delight (That last one is actually just how the sentence appears anyway, as if I was into copywriting in the 80s). Gwen likes him, a lot! Gwen says yes…with delight. But she still is saying yes to Mitch, too (okay, again that’s how it appears on the book. Perhaps the perceived/humorous subtext isn’t so much sub as dom?). Phil soon becomes tired of being Gwen’s second choice, and tells her so angrily. If she can’t stop saying yes…”

Does that not sound like the description to a Swedish sex “documentary” from the 60s? An absolutely favorite part is the last line of the book. “Just one thing did occur to me as we kissed: I may have learned to say no, but where Phil Passos was concerned, the word “yes” was still a very important part of my vocabulary.”

Apparently a television show from a couple years ago was based upon this series; however, as the airing took place on something called ABC Family, I was oblivious. Most likely this channel's existence was allowed only to those who had passed within a church in recent memory…like a passkey or a card with a code…something like that.

Introduction

After a lifetime of being enchanted with the printed word, I want to finally take a moment and just, like…stare, you know. Stare at every book, ones I own and don’t, and just sorta fathom their depths for all those little secrets that aren’t even listed on the pages within. Then I will take all those pages, line them up, and find out which books lied to me and actually did have their secrets within. Those…those “books” I will punish…all chopped up and burnt. Oh yeah, I will taste your blackened tatters and wouldn’t you be surprised to know that char tastes joyously so similar to…

So, books, huh? About every day or so, I want to take some book that makes me laugh or smile at its own existence and just spew like so. Some titles will naturally fall further along the fail continuum than others and some may just have not stood the test of ever so dirty minded time. Finally, a very few will just be awesome for lack of a longer German word that implies the (same thing)+(a few college courses). Enjoy.