To the Moon, Alice

This book took me back to some of the grad school documents I read for my thesis - totally boring, studied, academic writing - yet totally fascinating subject.  Lawrence Wright has packed his book with bizarre facts and incidents presented in the most matter of fact manner.  I imagine he had to struggle to keep his words from becoming sarcastic, or worse - glib.

For those of you who think that Scientology died with L. Ron Hubbard in 1985, never fear.  Hubbard simply chose to "drop his body" and move to a new level of existence.  If Hubbard followed the same path he asked his acolytes to accept, he first went to Mars (yes, Mars) where he spent time before a huge wheel depicting significant moments in his life.  As the wheel spun, Hubbard's past grew weaker and weaker until it no longer existed.  He will be back.  He promised that.  After spending time with the wheel on Mars, a Scientologist finds a new baby's body to occupy.  If no baby is readily available the Thetan (believer) energy simply lurks around a pregnant woman until she goes into labor.

Yup.  You're right.  I'm not going to be signing up for these fun and games any time soon.  Seriously, Hubbard was dangerous, delusional and a bigamist.  And that is only the beginning.  Some will say that this book is certainly the work of a conspioracy theorist, but the amount of research that went into this is evidenced by footnotes and over fifty pages of end notes documenting sources.  This isn't a Kitty Kelley expose type book.  Wright never tells us that his sources have asked to remain anonymous.  He never quotes the cousin of a neighbor who one had a sister who sat next to Hubbard's son in second grade.  He names his sources and presents them as credible by explaining their background and association with Scientology.

What I don't understand is how this organization has managed to maintain its status as a religion.  That position has been challenged more than once, yet it continues to enjoy the privileges granted to more traditional churches.  Maybe that will be answered for me in the coming chapters.  I was also curious about how this group enticed so many celebrities, but now I understand that.  I just began reading about Tom Cruise's early involvement, while he was still married to his first wife, Mimi Rogers.

I haven't decided how much more time Ill spend with this book.  It's an eye opener, for sure, but the I can't imagine that my opinion will change if I continue to read.  200 pages to go....skimming might work (not that I every skimmed in grad school., mind you).

Thanks for stopping by.

Because I've been binge watching British mysteries on PBS, this advance reader seemed like a great choice for some weekend reading.  I figured I'd scan a few chapters and that would be that.  Nope.  This turned out to be both fun and enlightening reading.  Lesley and Roy Adkins created a fully painted picture of the 18th century, validating my long held belief that I would not have survived long under those conditions.

The past ten years or so have been good to Jane Austen.  Most of her books have been made into movies, some being big Hollywood ventures, others smaller offerings by the BBC or public television.  The pictures of rural England, serene, slow, with gallant men in breeches and women in empire waist dresses writing in journals tells only part of the story.

The Adkins tell us the rest.  This book portrays to daily lives of ordinary people with discussion topics as diverse as childbirth, marriage, religion, sexual practices, hygiene, highwaymen and superstitions.  Fetching water from a well or river every day?  No thanks.  Medicinal leeches.  Nope. Children working in the mines meant certain early death, that is if the plague from really creepy bathroom practices didn't get them first. Oh, and how about  the corpses left in public swinging from gibbets for everyone to see?

Yes, it was all quite bleak by today's standards.  Most people could not afford lawyers so many couples suffered intolerable marriages as a result. A woman could not divorce her husband on grounds of cruelty since it was legal for a husband to beat his wife.  But if he did beat her to the brink of death, he was punished, and asked to "be good" for about three years.  A husband could end a marriage by selling his wife. Sometimes the woman consented, but not often. The woman was led into the public square with a rope around her neck and auctioned off. Once money exchanged hands, the deed to her ownership was transferred to the highest bidder.  

And of course, there were the gypsies. Apparently child stealing was common in parts of England; the gypsies were often credited for the abduction.  Kids were stolen for various reasons - couples desperate for a child, for cheap labor or to sold into slavery.  Local newspapers reported these abductions with most reports ending with "....the child is probably gone forever."

Oh, these were not easy times for those people who did not live between the covers of an Austen novel.

By they way, if you have time, try to catch an episode or two of "DCI  (Detective chief Inspector) Banks" , Scott & Bailey, or Father Brown Mysteries.  Sometimes I have to use the closed caption button of the TV since these Brits talk quickly and quietly.  PBS doesn't always keep a consistent schedules with these shows, but check them out ifyou can.

I'm also re-reading Tom Maltman's Little Wolves for our books discussion this week.  I must have read it too fast the first time, because I certainly missed a lot.  Not sure about the ending, though.  We'll see what the discussion offers.

Thanks for stopping by.

A World of Mess

No post today.  I am moving shelving around so that some drywall work and painting can start tomorrow.

Time to Take the Cure

Years ago I saw a movie called The Road to Wellville starring Matthew Broderick as Dr. John Harvey Kellogg.  Yes, one half of the Kellogg team that brought us corn flakes.  I remember cringing at several scenes as Dr. Kellogg treated patients at his sanatorium with all sorts of terrifying cures.  A bit of follow-up reading revealed that the movie wasn't far from the truth.  In the 1870's, Dr. Kellogg did indeed open a sanatorium in Battle Creek, Michigan where he inflicted all manner of tortures on his "guests".  Treatments ran the gamut from extreme enemas (you can picture that any way you'd like) to amputation as a cure for 'self abuse."  Ironically, his facility was a favorite spot for the very rich  seeking an end to their ills.

In 2004, Milwaukee novelist and playwright, Ludmilla Bollow, published Dr. Zastro's Sanitarium For the Ailments of Women, providing me with an equal dose of skin crawlies jeebees.  Poor little Yana, being treated by Phillipe Zastrow with hypnosis sessions and electromagnetic shocks, quickly finds herself longing for the very emotional tingling she had hoped to eliminate from her life.  Who know these places and these methods really existed?

Now, thanks to Erica Janik, producer and editor of WPR's Wisconsin Life series, the facts have been gathered in the informative, enlightening, and yes, frequently creepy, book pictured above.  Janik looks at the myriad of experimental treatments that rose as alternatives to bleeding, blistering, and induced vomiting and sweating.  She talks about the variations of "water cures" including tightly wrapping patients in wet sheets to squeeze sickness out.  Then there are the magnetic cures and  the "Thought" cure.  This is interesting - similar to  the "Think "method of learning to play an instrument developed  by flim-flam man Harold Hill in The Music Man.  In this leap of faith cure, "diseased" thoughts are magically replaced with "healthy" thoughts resulting in a healthy body.   

Silly as these may seem, Janik assets that many of these innovations are precursors to practical, medical wisdom still used today.  Frequent baths.  Regular exercise.  Eight glasses of water a day.  All that, and more, Janik says grew out of early holistic therapies.  If it all sounds goofy, just remember, Louisa May Alcott believed in homeopathy.  We all know that she hovered on the fringes of transcendentalism - one of the richest movements in American literature - but I guess Alcott died eventually anyway, so skeptics, there's your antithesis.  

Whether you choose to read this book for it's historic significance, or just for a afternoon spent trolling the bizarre - check it out.

Thanks for stopping by.

Yes, this is Saturday and this is Monday's Fine Print on a Monday post.  My Monday schedule has changed so you might be finding Fine Print on the Saturday before the anticipated Monday, or on the Tuesday after, or on the Monday itself depending on how things go on Saturday and Sunday.  Confused? Don't be, It's only a blog post and so basically, Fine Print on a Monday will appear with some degree of irregularity between Saturday and Tuesday of any given week.

Bird Watching Anyone?

I have a vague recollection of reading this book, or at least starting it once before.  No matter.  For some reason, I expected not to like it, but since I promised to read down the pile of books on my living room floor, I committed to this one to start.

Mr. Malik, the story's protagonist, reminds me so much of Major Pettigrew in Major Pettigrew's Last Stand. He is charming, witty, astute, classy, reserved...so very British.  This isn't simply a love story, nor is it a treasure trove of information on unique ornithological sightings.  Tucked neatly within the competition that pits Mr. Malik against  Harry Khan for the right to invite Rose Mbitwa to the Hunt Club ball are tales of Kenyan people who thrive despite corruption, violence and poverty.

I especially enjoyed the narrator who interrupts the story form time to time and warns the reader that all may not be as it seems, or to share some tidbit about life in Nairobi.  He (the narrator just sounds like a "he" to me) possesses a wicked sense of humor - again very British.  I could just imagine him sharing one of his poshly clever lines, and then, smugly satisfied with his offering, chuckling to himself even if no one else caught the joke.

Atop the first page of each chapter you'll find a tiny line drawing of an African bird - gentle and whimsical like the novel itself.  You don't have to like birds to enjoy this book.  The cover compares it to The #1 Ladies Detective Agency series by Alexander McCall Smith.  I sure would like to see Mr., Malik and   Smith's unpredictable Mma Ronotswe get together.

Thanks for stopping by.

The Dogger Blogger Returns

Since You-Know-Who is at it again - too busy watching the Olympics and futzing with Heart-A-Rama - I have commandeered the blog this week.  Note the updated selfie.  Pensive, isn't it?  Much better than that silly thing with the Groucho gear plastered all over my face.  

I had a bout of illness in the past weeks, giving me time to read the novel you see here.  There's nothing better than a good love story, and just in time for Valentine's Day, too.  Henry is a nice little boy who brings Charley home to be his bestie.  Henry gets to do everything with Charley.  He gets to walk him, he gets to feed him, and he gets to play with him.  But his parents say that Charley can't sleep with Henry.  Oh, that Henry.  When Charley cries on his first night, Henry walks him around the house.  He lifts him up to peer out the window and look at the moon.  They sing together.  Love. Love.  Love.  I won't reveal where Henry's parents find Charley the next morning, but, let me tell you, it took me three whole nights before I made my way into a bed that was bigger, softer and warmer than  the one YKW stupidly thought I'd sleep in.

YKW has a couple projects in the works, I think.  Her New Year's resolution was to write one haiku a day. You know, a haiku is just three lines, seventeen syllables in all.  Well, guess what?  She's now twelve days behind.  I have also seen great piles of books appearing from everywhere.  Over the years they have slipped beneath beds, in closets, under chairs, in the refrigerator.  They all have bookmarks in them.  I am guessing that she plans to finally knock them off before buying and reading anything new.  We'll see how that goes. This is a list of some of those dusty, bent up books that are now neatly piled on the floor next to my favorite blanket.

A Guide to Birds of South Africa

The French Lieutenant's woman

Berlin Stories

High Wind in Jamaica

Persian Pickle Club

Kate

Readers Companion to Cuba

The Book of God

The Scarlet Feather

I'll be watching that pile which is crowding my personal space.  If it doesn't begin to shrink, I know exactly what to do.

Barks to you.

GB (Mrs. George Burns) the Blogging Doggy

A Retro Read

You can't deny the similarities between Donleavy's cover and the poster art for the 70 hit film, The Graduate.  But, the similarities don't end there.  The Graduate, based on a 1963 novel by Charles Webb, and the "Beastly" book fall into the sub-genre of picaresque novels.  Neither strictly adheres to the pure definition or style which originated in 16th century Spain, but they're close enough.  In episodic bursts of bawdiness and sentimentality, both books follow the adventures of roguish youths in existential searches.  In both cases, the search mostly boils down to sex - but some ethos and pathos creep in between the lurid scenes..

In my college "History of the Novel" class, we read Joseph Andrews by Henry Fielding.  I recall being the only person in class not appalled by the story.  I thought that odd at the time since my class was filled with students who were regular class skippers who preferred cussing over sheepshead in the lounge to discussing any piece of literature that wasn't jammed with pages of fast paced dialogue.  I figure they were pretending to be alarmed in order to garner much needed brownie points from the elderly, but brilliant literature scholar - who just happened to be a nun.  But, Sr. Salome was cool.  She enjoyed that I smirked and nodded my head in recognition of double meanings.  She and I enjoyed Joseph Andrews and then she suggested novels of similar ilk to me.  Don Quixote.  Catcher in the Rye.  Tom Jones.  I can't say I enjoyed all of them, but she did a great job of selling me on the style.

So....Balthazar made me a little uncomfortable at time, especially when the proper little 12 year-old boy dives head first into an affair with his 24 year-old nanny.  Thankfully the author didn't get too detailed, but Donleavy is a master of innuendo, so the intent is there for sure.  Hi unique narrative style, certainly experimental in 1968, proved to be tedious at times.  Fragments.  Weird punctuation.  Internal narration.   Voice mixing.  Too much.  Cormac McCarthy pulled off the fragmented narration in The Road with greater dexteruty and purpose.

The book made me laugh at times but mostly, I kept my fingers crossed that Balthazar and his sidekick, Beefy, would stay clear of the law.  These boys were living on the edge as they searched - B for love and, ironically, Beefy for spirituality.  I'm not sure if I would recommend this book.  Have to let it settle in for awhile.

In the meantime - I might grab a not yet published book for this week.  

Heart-A-Rama auditions this Thursday at 7:00 and Sunday at 1:00 at the Capitol Civic Centre.

Our Crazy Language

This handy little tool has been making the FaceBook rounds for a while, and each time it pops up, I shake my head, smile a bit (or perhaps it's a grimace) wondering how many English teachers are, at that very moment, beating their heads on their desk, against a chalkboard or Smart board after once more failing to pound these words into confused students.  I wouldn't say that I gave up on that goal while I was teaching, but rather embraced the idea that some kids were just never going to get it.  After all, I have a math-proof head, so why it it not possible that there are native English speakers whose minds deem the memorization of rules governing an oft irrational language unimportant?  Whether that decision was a conscious one doesn't matter.  All that matters is that some people just aren't going to get it, evidenced by the FB chart above. And, that chart doesn't even begin to address the magnitude of complexities we face each day when it comes to written, oral, and non-verbal communication.  

Some of you might be winding up for a hard toss saying, "Hey, I read your blog.  If I were to keep track of your spelling errors, I would run out of fingers and toes."  Maybe so, but the reality is that I type like a crazy woman, and hate proofreading.  More than unit tests, my students feared that I might sit at my computer and type while they were were trying to develop a revolutionary new theory of the meaning of Beckett's Waiting for Godot.  "How can we possibly focus with all  that clicking going on?" they would protest.  Must be my piano playing years that cause me to word process with a vengeance, and I do like the sound.  It is the sound of industry - the sound of something coming into being that did not exist the moment before.

I am not a big Mark Twain fan; however his sardonic commentaries on language are fun.  I especially like his wisdom on spelling

 I don't see any use in having a uniform and arbitrary way of spelling words.  We might as well make all clothing alike and cook all the same dishes.  Sameness is tiresome; variety is pleasure.  KOW spelled with large K is just as good as with a small c.  It is better.  It gives the imagination a broader field." 

 Amen brother.  Methinks Twain would be OK w/txtng.

What am I reading?  After the Brady Udall love fest, I have turned to lighter matters.   I received an advance copy of a cozy mystery call Death of an Irish Diva.  Wow!  These cozies have little substance, and less craft.  A book that should take me 45 minutes to breeze through is taking me twice that.  The author is in love with pronouns and I have to keep checking three of four sentences back to see who the pronoun is referencing.  But the Irish dance competition coach was found dead and the town ballet teacher is the prime suspect.  Gotta get to the truth.

Thanks for stopping by.

Call It Courage

In 1941, Armstrong Sperry won a Newbery medal for excellence in children's literature.   Call It Courage is the story of physical and spiritual survival.  10 year-old Mafatu fears the sea, something that brings shame to him and to his father, the leader of a Polynesian island.   The sea gods claimed Mafatu's mother years earlier, and as result, he refuses to man up and fish with the other boys his age.  Instead, he stays ashore and weaves nets with the women.  

Mafatu eventually decides he must face his fear and sets off for the adventure of his life, taking a small canoe out onto the unpredictable waters.  He is accompanied by his dog, Uri, and Kivi, an injured albatross.  What Mafatu encounters, fights and overcomes would put contestants on "Survivor" to shame.  

I don't know why I picked this book up.  My fourth grade teacher read it to us which I suspect she did in a sort of underground maneuver since no other teacher grades 1-8 ever read to us.  I wonder what subject she stole minutes from each day to share this wonderful story.  So many of us chocked back sobs when she read the closing lines.  We sided with Mafatu.  We wanted him to return to the island a hero - to show everyone who laughed at him that he was courageous,  but the ambivalent ending was far too hazy for us.  Reading it on my own last weekend left me with the same sense.  Did Mafatu win?  Try as I might, I could find no clues within the text to lead me to a definite answer as to what the final paragraphs meant. 

As 9 year olds, were we really equipped to handle the ending, I wonder?  We didn't talk about the story.  It was enough that our teacher sneak-read it to us.  Heaven forbid that we should actually discuss anything.  

Call It Courage is poetic rather than prosaic.    There is little dialogue.  How can there be when it's just a boy, a dog and an albatross?  The more I think about it, the more the book resembles The Life of Pi in tone, theme, and style.  If you liked that book, take an hour and read this one.

Book group news?  No one (except for me) will be joining the Brady Udall fan club any time soon.  Sigh. Despite the venom, we had a lengthy discussion.  We're moving on to Tom Maltman's Little Wolves...another arty, moody piece.  We'll see how that goes.  In general, as long as there is chocolate, Cheetos, and wine to go along with the discussion, we're all happy.

Letter to My Best Friend, Brady Udall

Hey Brady, 

What goes on in that mind of yours?  How does it work?  What kind of twisted, loopy, roundabout, underpass, overpass, detour routing drives the creation of these stream of consciousness semantic maps that result in novels?  A number of obstacles drew me away from hitting the book - so to speak - earlier, even though it is my discussion book for this coming Friday.  Knowing this weekend would be the only dedicated time I would have with your 600 pages, I committed to the challenge.  By the end of Sunday afternoon, you had exhausted me, yet I felt strangely happy.

Yes, oddly happy...since I didn't really care for any of the characters you created.  But, like The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint, your artistry gripped me, and I found myself drawn deeper and deeper into the complex world of style and nuance.   I did feel some compassion for the sister wives and a couple of the kids, but for the most part, the stories layered upon stories were, at their core, grim pictures of pathetic people who either created their own circumstances, or chose not to change the circumstance they were in.  

Your timing is impeccable.  Just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, you'd toss in a phrase, a small comment or just the right word to soften the edges.  Indeed!   I laughed often despite the dysfunction filling each page.  The ostrich.  The "La Cucaracha" cantata, the Eisenhower pinata.  Where does this stuff come from?  

Thanks for the little family tree in the front of the book.  At first, I referred to it often, and then realized, that for me, it didn't really matter who was who.  I don't think you really want us to focus on a linear plot.  If you did, you wouldn't  take us on the fascinating day trips.  I'm not implying, Brady, that your characters weren't well developed.  In fact, because you provide so much back story, tender details, and crisp visuals, that were your entire cast to walk into my space right now, I am sure I could name them with a decent percentage  of  precision.  

I know Mike Magnuson.  I know that you and Mike wrote together at Breadloaf.  So, in one of those convoluted logic puzzle ways, I want to say that I know you. I want to be able to flash  this book around and say "Look what my friend Brady wrote.  It's art.  It's not Jody Picoult socio- pseudo intellectual silliness, it's not a lot of stuff.  It's my friend, Brady and he wrote this book that doesn't suck. I am so proud of him."  But, I know that being proud of you, my friend, boils down to bragging rights, and that ain't worth much.  So I will be happy to share my thoughts with my book group and hope they liked it better than they like "Edgar".  By the way, brilliant call making Presley his middle name.

Your pretend friend and sincere admirer

B