SMOKE GETS IN YOUR EYES :: Caitlin Doughty

Like most of us, author Caitlin Doughty was shielded from death as a child, right down to the dead goldfish switched out for a live lookalike before she noticed anything amiss. But at the age of 8, Doughty witnessed the horrific death of a little girl, after which she understandably became a bit obsessed with the subject. Years later, somewhat aimless, Doughty took a job as crematory operator at a local funeral home, Westwind Cremation and Burial. Smoke Gets In Your Eyes: & Other Lessons from the Crematory is Doughty's account of that job and its impact on her thoughts and beliefs on death and dying, on both a personal and global level.

Smoke is a fascinating account of the inner workings of a crematory, as well as an eye-opening look at how death in America has been commercialized and removed from tradition. Although Doughty's main job was to run the cremation machines ("retorts"), she also assisted her co-workers in body pickups and burial/cremation preparations, including makeup and embalming. Presented in a straight-forward manner infused with Doughty's sly humor and vibrant personality, the book is far from morbid or gross (there was only one short cringe-worthy scene; bet you'll know it when you read it).

Smoke is full of fascinating and educational stories on Doughty's daily responsibilities that alone make this book worth the price of admission. But Doughty has a much broader purpose in mind. Whether she's shaving her first corpse or loading a body in a retort ("Each machine had a metal door that slid up and down, the chomping mouths of an industrial children's fable"), Doughty wants us to find a comfort level with the subject matter, aware of just how far removed we've become from a healthy relationship with death and dead bodies:

Every culture has death values. Those values are transmitted in the form of stories and myths, told to children starting before they are old enough to form memories. The beliefs children grow up with give them a framework to make sense of and take control of their lives...[T]here is something deeply unsettling -- or deeply thrilling, depending on how you view it -- about what is happening to our death values. There has never been a time in the history of the world when a culture has broken so completely with traditional methods of body disposition and beliefs surrounding mortality.

Doughty explains how these breaks were often necessitated by circumstance. During the Civil War, for example, the sheer volume of bodies, combined with insufficient time and transportation, increased the need for embalming. But death rituals have also historically been driven by religious beliefs. As society becomes increasingly secular and commercialized, we worsen our relationship with death, hiding from it at every turn. Of course, this is all to the delight of plastic surgeons, rest homes, hospitals, and funeral practitioners, each of which plays a part in separating us from the death process and, perhaps, self-awareness and closure.

Left to their own devices, human bodies rot, decompose, come apart, and sink gloriously back into the earth from whence they came. Using embalming and heavy protective caskets to stop this process is a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable, and demonstrates our clear terror of decomposition. The death industry markets caskets and embalming under the rubric of helping bodies look "natural," but our current death customs are as natural as training majestic creatures like bears and elephants to dance in cute little outfits, or erecting replicas of the Eiffel Tower and Venetian canals in the middle of the harsh American desert.

Doughty ultimately left Westwind to attend mortuary school in order to get an inside look at how our death practitioners are being trained. She has since worked towards bringing more traditional rituals and natural deaths back into focus. She believes we are missing "rituals of true significance, rituals involving the body, the family, emotions." Rituals that can't be replaced with buying power and that provide the gift of facing our own mortality and finding closure and perhaps some comfort. You can read more about Doughty's mission at her website, Order of the Good Death, where she and other funeral industry professionals, academics, and artists "explore ways to prepare a death phobic culture for their inevitable mortality."

As a side note, the MAR was lucky enough to be selected to contribute to Pop Culture Nerd's Nerdy Special List, 2014 Favorites Edition (which you can find here), and Smoke was my contribution to that list. There are great picks from all the contributing bloggers, go check it out. And give PCN's blog a follow, she always has great reviews and information on books, movies, and other pop culture goodness (the fashion editions during awards season are not to be missed).

Final thoughts on Smoke:

STREET SENSE: Whip-smart, wickedly funny, and a natural storyteller, Doughty turns what could be a dry and morbid tale into a fascinating and enlightening must-read.

A FAVORITE PASSAGE:  A girl always remembers the first corpse she shaves. It is the only event in her life more awkward than her first kiss or the loss of her virginity. The hands of time will never move quite so slowly as when you are standing over the dead body of an elderly man with a pink razor in your hand.

COVER NERD SAYS: I really like this cover.  Neat and clean, it's nothing fancy, but gets the point across. While the coloring, bordering, and main title text can be interpreted as quite formal (perhaps even funereal?), the artwork and set-off of the subtitle text dial the formal back and bring in a little, dare I say, warmth.

WOLF IN WHITE VAN :: John Darnielle

I finished Wolf In White Van several weeks ago, and although I've been ruminating on it since, I'm still not certain I can adequately review it. Which, in this instance, is a testament to the unique and compelling nature of the work, one of my favorites of the year. Written by musician John Darnielle of The Mountain Goats (whose music I have never heard but will now seek out), the book certainly has a lyrical quality and, like a song, the meaning to be mined from it is to some extent left to the reader.

At the outset, we know protagonist Sean Phillips experienced a traumatic and disfiguring incident as a young man. The opening lines give some of this away:

My father used to carry me down the hall to my room after I came home from the hospital. By then I could walk if I had to, but the risk of falling down was too great, so he carried me like a child. 

What we don't know, and what slowly unravel through the course of the story, are the what and the why. And while the incident is at the core of both who Sean is and what the book is about, there are no neat answers. In this way, the book felt profoundly in tune with real life and the psychology of human behavior.

While lying in the hospital and through his long recuperation, Sean keeps his mind busy inventing a post-apocalyptic role-playing game called Trace Italian. Once able, he turns his idea into a reality, starting a small business running the game through the mail. For a fee, subscribers receive information regarding their next available moves in response to their letters to Sean revealing what they did with his last set of clues. Through this ongoing correspondence, Sean is connected to the players, even if remotely and based on made-up roles.

Trace Italian is a fantasy game, but two participants have taken the game "live," to disastrous ends. At the start of Wolf, Sean is facing an inquest over his potential responsibility for the acts taken by the two young players. The story weaves deftly between the past and present, doling out its own set of clues to the reader as to how Sean has come to sit where he's sitting, literally and metaphorically.

Told in reverse-chronology stream-of-consciousness style as Sean's past is weaved into his present, Wolf is challenging, gripping, and often raw, as Sean has been living a fairly solitary and often surreal existence since he was disfigured more than twenty years prior. But I also found it full of grace, as Sean has transformed and crafted a life in his solitude, one that is perhaps defined by more ties and meaning than it was pre-incident, even though shot-through with guilt and isolation:

I always wonder if people are afraid of me because they think I'll do something: press my face up against them or start making funny noises. I am always a little tempted to satisfy their fears. But I never do it; it would feel wrong; it would be wrong. I don't need to make myself feel better by frightening people or making them squirm. When I was a child, I dreamed of powers like these, but I no longer have those dreams. I am free. 

I think this book will have many different meanings and messages to different people. I could talk about and explore it ad nauseam, but I hesitate to delve too deeply and risk giving too much away. The joy is truly in the journey. One of the wonderful characteristics of Darnielle's story-telling is how he holds the mysteries and slowly lets them trickle forth. The incident hovers over every passage and I suffered the tension of wanting to know, wanting the answers. Darnielle's prose, past and present, masterfully holds that tension, circling around the incident like water to a drain, slowly drawing the reader closer to the defining moment that may, ultimately, be undefinable.

STREET SENSE: I can't do justice to Darnielle's masterful and unique writing, it has to be experienced.  I can't recommend Wolf enough if you enjoy lyrical writing that pushes the boundaries, forces you to think and reflect, and may raise as many or more questions than it ultimately answers.

A FAVORITE PASSAGE: I closed my eyes and I concentrated. Dad was getting ready to tell me about the funeral plans, I knew. I could make it easier for him if I tried hard enough. It isn't really much of a mystery, this occasional need I have to comfort my father. I did something terrible to his son once.

COVER NERD SAYS: This cover intrigued me more than anything. It reminded me of the mazes I used to do in Highlights magazine as a kid. I was also attracted by the color, which was anything but dark. I can't really tell you why, I just knew I had to try the maze, I wanted to know what that weird title meant. And the maze was so good I'm still mentally wandering around in it.

THE THIEF :: Fuminori Nakamura

I had heard of The Thief, but it was the opportunity to meet Fuminori Nakamura at this year's Bouchercon that pushed it to the top of my stack. I found Nakamura to be impossibly charming, even as he described learning to pick his friends' pockets as "research" for this book. The Thief of the title is a professional pickpocket in Tokyo, a young man who makes his living moving anonymously and disconnected among the masses, a master at blending in and picking just about anything from anyone at any time, at times not even remembering he's done it:

The mannequin and I were dressed the same. I had no interest in clothes, but people in my line of work can't afford to stand out. You have to look prosperous so that no one suspects you. You have to wear a lie, you have to blend into your environment as a lie. The only difference between me and the store dummy was the shoes. Keeping in mind that I might have to run away, I was in sneakers.

At the start of the novel, the Thief's (his name is mentioned only once -- to his horror as he has worked to remain anonymous -- thus it feels more appropriate to refer to him as the Thief here) past has come back to haunt him. Some time ago, his prior partner, Ishikawa, talked the Thief into doing one last job before Ishikawa escaped from the city. The job was for an ominous local gangster, Kizaki, just the man Ishikawa was trying to escape in fear for his life. Against his better judgment, but really without much choice, the Thief takes part in the caper, which, of course, is not all it seems.

When Kizaki comes calling on the Thief again, he's caught in an impossible position, forced once again to leave behind his solitary practices in order to help others, including a young boy who has attached himself to the Thief and in whom the Thief sees some of his prior self. What follows is a tense game of cat and multiple mice that had my stomach knotted by the end game. The Thief describes his profession as "the act of denying all values, trampling all ties." But as the story proceeds, he is forced to face issues of fate, isolation, humanity, and connection, as he determines how to proceed.

Nakamura has a gift for creating an incredible sense of setting with few words. Translated from the author's native Japanese, I have to believe little, if anything, was lost in the translation. A relatively short book at 211 pages, Nakamura does not sell the story short, but manages to infuse it with mood, tension, and desperation without much fooling around. The following passage is representative of how Nakamura is able to put the reader smack in the middle of gritty Tokyo, providing a 360 degree sense of the surroundings in just a few sentences:

Occasionally a bike would pass us, but at this hour of the night the tunnel was quiet. Coffee cans and the wreckage of rotten lunch containers lay beneath the graffiti. Insects flitted in front of my face and I brushed them away with my hand as we walked deeper inside. The crunch of our footsteps echoed feebly under the low ceiling. Two small black plastic bags lay in the middle of the passage, their contents mysterious. When I touched one with my foot it sprang back with unpleasant elasticity, like dark meat.

Winner of the 2010 Oe Prize (awarded in Japan to the best novel which contains the best 'literary words') and the 2014 David L. Goodis Award for Noir Fiction, The Thief is well worth picking up (no pun intended) and I'll be surprised if, like me, you don't want to go out and learn the art of pickpocketing when you're done.  If nothing else, you're going to be more conscious of where you keep your wallet.

STREET SENSE: Recommended for anyone who enjoys confident, lean prose used to tell a gritty story about something of an antihero and his obstacles. If you like ruminating over the issue of fate, all the better.

A FAVORITE PASSAGE: Her clothes lay on the floor like a flattened corpse.

COVER NERD SAYS: I have to admit, this cover did not move me to pick up The Thief. To me, it read a bit like punk electronica (is that even a thing?), with the out of the ordinary lighting choice on the runner's image. But I'm glad I was won over by Nakamura's personality or I would have missed out on a super read.

YES PLEASE :: Amy Poehler

My first thought upon picking up Amy Poehler's Yes Please was that this book is different. Yes, partly because it weighs as much as a (tofu) Thanksgiving turkey, but also because of its stuffing. Printed on thick, photo-quality paper, the book reads and feels much like a coffee table book or "yearbook," filled with photos (old and new), news clippings, handwritten poems, letters, script excerpts, emails and graphics. I was quite impressed and immediately sucked in by the presentation.

A "missive from the middle," Yes Please is much more than a memoir. It's a wonderful mix of personal history, life lessons (from the author and her parents, among others), advice, and (yes, not to worry) humorous anecdotes, served up by a funny lady who feels young and old at the same time (what Poehler calls "pre-peri-middle-aged"). Despite discussing setbacks and the negative inner voice that haunts us all, Poehler's Yes Please is full of positive messages geared towards getting past life's hurdles and finding your true self.

The title itself was borne of important messages:

The title Yes Please comes from a few different places. I like to say "Yes please" as an answer to a lot of things in my personal and professional life. The "yes" comes from my improvisational days and the opportunity that comes with youth, and the "please" comes from the wisdom of knowing that agreeing to do something usually means you aren't doing it alone...Saying "yes" doesn't mean I don't know how to say no, and saying "please" doesn't mean I am waiting for permission. "Yes please" sounds powerful and concise. It's a response and a request. It is not about being a good girl; it is about being a real woman...[N]ice manners are the secret key to the universe. 

Although a few of the essays are arguably geared slightly more towards women, the author correctly assures us the book has "plenty of stuff" for men as well. Indeed, most of the messages are universal. For example, a missive on pregnancy and childbirth discusses the various approaches and how women can be judgmental of each other concerning choices different from their own. Poehler has a two-sentence motto for this situation that really can, and perhaps should, apply to all of us in most every situation: "Good for her! Not for me."

While we all expect plenty of funny from Poehler, it was the more serious portions of the book I took to the most. They were heartfelt and sometimes difficult to read, but underscored the fact that we all suffer from the same faults and indignities, despite our stations in life. My favorite essay was about saying "sorry" and a situation Poehler suffered through for years before finding peace through an apology. It was a lesson in humility and grace not to be missed.

While Yes Please comments on other serious issues (death, divorce, postpartum depression, negative inner voices), never fear, there is plenty of humor, even in the "hard parts." Fans of Poehler's work will be tickled to read insider stories from her time at the Upright Citizens Brigade, SNL, and Parks & Recreation. With section titles such as "Treat Your Career Like A Bad Boyfriend," "My World Famous Sex Advice," and "Talk To Yourself Like You're Ninety," it seems certain there's something for every reader.

I didn't find all of it funny (see: worn out joke about Hollywood lawyers and agents being Jewish - which may have been a parody of the stereotype I just didn't find humorous regardless), which lends itself to how "human" the book feels. It may seem cliche, but Poehler was able to come across as the "everywoman," someone to whom we can all relate on some level. In an essay by former Weekend Update co-anchor Seth Meyers, Meyers writes about the first time he saw Poehler, performing at a Chicago improv theater in the mid-90s. A member of the audience, Meyers remembers thinking "[s]he was charming, funny, sweet, and sharp and I left thinking, 'I would like to be her friend.'"

To Poehler's credit, I finished this book feeling exactly the same way.

STREET SENSE: Whether you're looking for a set of funny stories from one of our best comedic minds, or a memoir about what makes Amy Poehler tick, this book fits the bill. Highly recommended and put together prettily enough to display on your coffee table for a quick "thumb-through" by a guest or to revisit a favorite essay.

A FAVORITE PASSAGE: I had to pick two, one that made me laugh out loud and one that got me in my guts:

Nothing is more depressing than a tired dominatrix.

Our parents surround us with origin stories that create deep grooves in the vinyl records of our lives.

COVER NERD SAYS: I liked this cover very much. As simple as a great photo of Amy, it also speaks to the "Yes Please" underpinnings of both vulnerability (the raising of Amy's hand) and power (the raising of Amy's hand).

A BRIEF SABBATICAL

I realize it's a tad early in this new venture to be requesting time off, but life events require I do so.  I returned from a fabulous five days spent at Bouchercon in Long Beach to discover my computer had died.  As in wouldn't even turn on.  Where are all of my reviews?  On my computer, natch. And while I have fabulous IT folks at work who are hopefully going to fix my wicket, it will be a while before I can get to my prior literary musings, if at all.

I may write something new, but the country song I came home to threw a wrench in my emotional works as well.  Upon arriving home, I received a call from my pet sitter that Hank wasn't doing well. I rushed to pick him up, then rushed to the vet, where the news was not good.  The worst of news, in fact.

Hemangiosarcoma is a blood tumor cancer to which golden retrievers are prone.  It's one of those bastard cancers that doesn't present until it's entirely too late for an intervention.  Many dogs simply die on the spot once the tumor ruptures and begins to bleed.  I've been "lucky."  Two of my four goldens have died from H-sarcoma, but I've had a day or so to spend with them and "get our shit in order."

With Hank, that meant taking him home, making him comfortable, and making an appointment with Dr. Anthony Smith.  God bless vets like Anthony Smith.  Dr. Smith provides in-home euthanasia, so your pet can die in as much comfort as possible in its own surroundings.  He is understanding and gentle and, as much as possible, allows the pet owner to direct how things play out.

This is the third time in twelve years I've invited Dr. Smith into my home.  You might think he's a person you never want to see again, but I'm of the opposite view. If I'm going to own pets (and having done so my entire life, I'm not likely to break the habit now), it's a comfort to know Dr. Smith is there when the time comes. And it always does.  Seeing him reminds me there are people out there who do difficult jobs so the pain of others can be borne more easily, that while my current situation might suck the biggest of big balls, I will love another pet enough to put myself in the same situation all over again.

I was so very lucky to have Hank in my life.  I had recently lost my first golden, Dakota, and that loss was so great I swore I would never get another dog.  It would just be me and my remaining golden, Jake, to the end.  Nine months later, a scrawny, obviously beaten and abused Hank wandered into my yard.  He was full of scabbed-over wounds.  He had lost half his tail to frostbite.  But it was love at first sight, and he rarely let me out of his sight from then on.  He would walk backwards or sideways so he never had to take his eyes off me (I never had DNA tests done, but I swear he was part Lipizzaner stallion).  He would smile on command, but also every damn time I walked through the door.

Hank morphed from an abused shell who was afraid of everything (and yes, I even saw him, quite hilariously, almost jump out of his skin at the sight of his own shadow) to a confident dog who loved everyone and everything.  He was never happier than when running across the neighborhood Bengal cat, who would rub noses with him and allow him to check out every inch of feline goodness.

Dr. Smith came at 11:00 a.m. yesterday morning.  For the previous 24 hours, Hank and I lay on the floor together.  I tried to look at and touch every inch of him, knowing soon enough I'd have to call on memory for those pleasures.  He was comfortable, but never left his bed, moving only his head to adjust it from my lap to my chest and back.  We talked.  I told him how lucky I was and what a good dog he was.  I swore I would never do this again at the same time I promised him I would. That I would save someone else, which really meant I would let another someone else save me.

All too soon, I helped Dr. Smith load him into the carrier and watched as he was wheeled away.  For the first time in my life, I was without a dog.  The energy in the house has changed.  I dread going home today.  But I will.  And some day, another beaten, scrawny, frightened dog will find me and save me all over again.

But god damn I will miss this magnificent bastard:

ASSASSINATION VACATION :: Sarah Vowell

Sarah Vowell is a wacky genius and I adore her. Perhaps others voluntarily vacation on road trips of Presidential death, but I'm betting no one does it with the humor and erudition of Ms. Vowell. In her capable hands, assassination isn't just educational, it's downright entertaining. I would pay good money to be her road trip sidekick.

Assassination Vacation takes readers with Vowell as she (and various trouper friends and family members) takes a fascinating and morbid trip through our country's assassinated and their assassins - Lincoln and Booth, Garfield and Guiteau, McKinley and Czolgosz. While we all likely know much of the Lincoln/Booth story, I (somewhat shamefully) admit I have not read or remembered anything of our other two leaders and their respective endings since high school. (I feel a little better when Vowell herself proclaims, "The most famous thing ever said about President James A. Garfield is about how nobody has any idea who the hell he was.") No matter how well you think you know any of these presidents and/or their deaths, I'm betting you'll learn something new on this trip.

There are many reasons to herald Assassination Vacation (as borne out by the 100+ highlights in my copy), so I'll share just a few that made it a top-notch read for me. The first is that Vowell does not paint the assassins as mere cardboard cutouts of a villain. Instead, she takes us through the killers' journeys, both before and after the assassinations, and even offers some basis for empathy:

Of course talking about the murders of previous presidents is going to open the door to discussing the current president. That’s what I like to call him, “the current president.” I find it difficult to say or type his name, George W. Bush. I like to call him “the current president” because it’s a hopeful phrase, implying that his administration is only temporary...So if I can summon this much bitterness toward a presidential human being, I can sort of, kind of see how this amount of bile or more, teaming up with disappointment, unemployment, delusions of grandeur and mental illness, could prompt a crazier narcissistic creep to buy one of this country’s widely available handguns. Not that I, I repeat, condone that. Like Lincoln, I would like to believe the ballot is stronger than the bullet. Then again, he said that before he got shot. 

Second, Vowell is exhaustive in her travels and knowledge, so we get unusual nuggets of information, told with the enthusiasm of someone who obviously adores her subject matter. The assassinations are discussed, for the most part, in separate sections, and Vowell visits major and tangential locations relevant to the lives of the presidents, their killers, and individuals in their respective peripheries who impacted them during or near the time of the assassinations. Places of death, former residences, getaway routes and locations, travels of the presidential bodies (dead and undead by a hair), monuments big and small, and museums containing various body parts and other "memorabilia," are all stops on the way. I was amazed by some of the creepy things people saved from these "occasions," including pieces of presidential pate (which is a great band name; you're welcome, feel free to use it).

Third, Vowell's own fears, strengths, and fantastically warped humor are infused into the story, and some of best entries are her own thoughts on a topic, or interactions with the interesting and like-minded folk who work at or curate the locations she visits. At times almost painfully shy, Vowell comes alive in these instances:

But when I’m around strangers, I turn into a conversational Mount St. Helens. I’m dormant, dormant, quiet, quiet, old-guy loners build log cabins on the slopes of my silence and then, boom, it’s 1980. Once I erupt, they’ll be wiping my verbal ashes off their windshields as far away as North Dakota.

Lest you fear Vowell's humor is inappropriate for tales of murder, never fear. While she  can find humor in any topic, however morbid, she also takes her work quite seriously, as evidenced by her retort to an "annoyingly upbeat" tourist who exclaims "Cheer up, everybody, we're part of history!":

'Sir,' I said, 'except for the people who were there that one day they discovered the polio vaccine, being part of history is rarely a good idea. History is one war after another with a bunch of murders and natural disasters in between.' 

So true. But if my choices are to laugh or cry, I choose to laugh along with Sarah Vowell.

STREET SENSE: I highly recommend Assassination Vacation to anyone who loves history, murder, laugh-out-loud reading, and fascinating nuggets of information perfect for an upcoming cocktail party. For example, I had no idea there was a bizarre (coincidental?) connection between Robert Todd Lincoln, Abe's son, and all three assassins/assassinations, as well as Booth's brother. I didn't spoil that story here, but the book is worth the read for that tidbit alone.

A FAVORITE PASSAGE:  Please. I actually giggle when he tries to steel me for seeing the re-created 1920s embalming room, as if I’m not wearing Bela Lugosi hair clips; as if I didn’t just buy a book for my nephew called Frankenstein and Dracula Are Friends; as if I was never nicknamed Wednesday (as in Addams); as if in eighth-grade English class, assigned to act out a scene from a biography, when all the other girls had chosen Queen Elizabeth or Anne Frank, I hadn’t picked Al Capone and staged the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre with toy machine guns and wadded-up red construction paper thrown everywhere to signify blood; as if I’m not here to see the replica of Abraham Lincoln’s casket; as if I’m not the kind of person who would visit the freaking Museum of Funeral Customs in the first place. (Did I mention I love Sarah Vowell?)

COVER NERD SAYS:  The covers of Vowell's books are all of the same theme and look like creepy little dioramas. That being said, there's something about the photographic method employed, small figurines against a relevant, soft-focused background, that is aesthetically pleasing (though still a little creepy).  I've actually grown to really appreciate them, maybe because Vowell is tiny herself and I can't help but picture her barging into the diorama to ask questions and share her humorous insights.  

LEARNING TO PLAY WITH A LION'S TESTICLES :: Melissa Haynes

Why do I blame this review on The Bloggess? Anyone who follows Jenny knows she gets some "unusual" suggested purchases at Amazon. All well-earned, mind you. Bless her heart, she often shares the more amusing and far-out items, of which this book was one. I took one look at the title and knew I had to have it. I didn't care what was inside, anyone who has the...well, balls, to put balls front and center on their book cover is worthy of a spot on my shelf.

Fittingly, it was a bizarre ride. Although never fully explained, author Melissa Haynes volunteered at a conservation preserve in South Africa, overseen by a ranger she refers to as Drill Sergeant. I spent the better part of the book thinking the two of them were the worst volunteer and ranger duo to ever grace a conservation preserve and survive (barely).

I cut the author some slack, as she had recently lost her mother to cancer (I'm guessing as to the timing; again, this is never explained) and her siblings are complete asshats, showing up at their mother's death bed only to clean out her house and leave town the day before Christmas, deserting Haynes to deal with their dying mother alone. Oh, and on the way out the door they tell her she has to get a life. Ah, family.

My feelings of empathy were sorely tested, as Haynes seemed to go out of her way to portray herself as a difficult, spoiled nitwit.

Some of her more questionable behavior included:

• Bringing food back to her tent against direct instruction, only to spend the night in fear of the creature lured by said food (brownies, no less. What are leftover brownies? Leftover brownies are rarer in my house than any animal at that preserve.);
• Bitching about the lack of a radio in the safari truck (because who wants to hear an elephant trumpet when they could get The Biebs on the radio instead?);
• Dealing with an incorrigible elephant by mixing dung into its food (it takes a special breed of maroon to do this to an animal);
• Complaining about every task she's given (apparently expecting she would be lying on a divan in a Snuggie bottle-feeding adorable newborn cheetahs while watching Oprah);
• Bemoaning her inability to understand Drill Sergeant's local dialect, which she refers to as "jibber jabber" (Hello, ugly American!)(But really, how can you blame her when one of the brain-twisters of an examples she cites is that in Africaans they use "100%" to mean "that's excellent" or "utter perfection" -- those damn foreigners and their pesky cultural jargon!);
• Fearing she is going to be raped by every local man who crosses her path (I don't even have words for this level of jackassery);
• Showing an utter inability to use a machete to cut a tree limb (anyone who has read internet comments or tried to shop at Costco during free sample hour knows how to use a machete, amiright?). 

Show of hands - who's ready to give her a pork loin necklace and send her into the lion enclosure?

Speaking of the lion enclosure, Drill Sergeant is not depicted as a threat to the local Mensa chapter. To get into the enclosure requires driving through two locked gates, the "neutral" area between them ensuring no escape. Which would be a great system if Drill Sergeant hadn't explained early on that the lions can jump the enclosure fence. Now I'm no Marlin Perkins, but you're never going to convince me those lions simply sit around super pissed they can't figure out the gates when they know they can leave the enclosure in a single bound.

The scene that put the icing on the cake of stupidity was the feeding of the lions. Drill Sergeant loads an antelope carcass in the back of the truck and drives through the two (apparently useless) gates into the enclosure. Lions smell dinner, want dinner, start chasing truck. Failing to outrun the lions, Drill Sergeant instructs Haynes to take the wheel, speed ahead as far as she can, then slam on the brakes. Drill Sergeant jumps out, runs to the back of the truck, lowers the tailgate and sprints back inside just as the pursuing lions arrive. With the tailgate now down they drive really fast up an incline so the carcass slides out the back and the Circle of Life Buffet is open for business.

Prizes for anyone who can explain why this mastermind would go through that rigmarole and risk failing to outrun hungry, carcass-smelling lions rather than simply lowering the damn tailgate before entering the enclosure. I fully expect to see this story in next year's Darwin Award nominees.

In the end, Haynes comes to terms with her fear of death and the loss of her mother, and somewhat redeems herself by performing her chores without griping and taking the initiative to start a vegetable garden for the locals. Drill Sergeant, who has obviously eaten too many spiked brownies, tells her she's the hardest working volunteer he's ever had. All of which tells me her less than stellar portrayal of herself that came before was likely exaggerated for the sake of story-telling. Overall, the book entertained me almost as much as it torqued my shorts, which is saying something.

STREET SENSE: You're on your own with this one.

A FAVORITE PASSAGE: "Have you ever seen a lion rip the spine out of a fleeing zebra?"

Note: Not the usual quotation fare, but I dare you to read that sentence without a flashback to the movie "Airplane!" and a trip down a wonderful quote tangent with the likes of "Ever seen a grown man naked?" "Looks like I picked the wrong day to stop sniffing glue," "There's a sale at Penny's!" and "Don't call me Shirley."

COVER NERD SAYS: Just look at that thing of beauty. The title alone got me to buy the damn book without even knowing what was inside. And is it just a happy accident the bush (no pun intended) is hiding the area of the titular lion's testicles? Just what kind of learning is going on here? The imagination runs. I'd say this one is marketing genius. At least with respect to those who have a penchant for lion balls.

TWO-CENT TUESDAY :: Keep Your Friends Close

A brief two-cent opinion about Paula Daly's Keep Your Friends Close:

Natty Wainwright and Eve Dalladay have been friends since college. Eve is visiting Natty and her family (husband Sean, teen daughters Alice and Felicity) in England when they receive word Felicity has fallen gravely ill while on a field trip in Paris. Natty flies off to what may be Felicity's death bed, only to return ten days later to discover Sean has fallen in love with Eve and is leaving Natty to be with her. Natty, always organized and in control, begins to slowly but surely unravel. As secrets in her past begin to surface and Eve uses them against her, Natty also begins to discover her friend is not all she has claimed to be and her intentions towards Natty's family have little to do with love.

I really liked Paula Daly's last novel, Just What Kind of Mother Are You?, and was very much looking forward to this offering. Daly tells a good story, a compelling story. Her narrative and dialogue feel authentic and her characters multi-faceted. In fact, I think she excels at writing characters secondary to the story. Natty's dad, investigating officer Joanne Aspinall, Joanne's Aunt Jackie, and even Sean's bitch of a mother, Penny, were all a pleasure to read and worthy characters despite their more limited page time.

Problematically, I didn't find the main characters or the overall story arc particularly believable. This isn't always a bad thing, I don't demand reality in every nook and cranny of a story. But many times here the fictions became distracting to the narrative as I questioned their likelihood. Would Sean, his daughter deathly ill, really unzip his pants without a second thought upon Eve's first advance, mere days after his wife leaves town? Would Natty react in some of the arguably unhinged ways she did? Would Eve target someone with whom she's had such a long-standing history and who therefore has more knowledge about her and reason to question her actions?

The book was an easy and entertaining read, the author is great at keeping the narrative flowing at a fast pace. Unfortunately, I kept waiting for the twist at the end (similar to the Daly's last offering) and it just never came. Although I really liked Natty's ultimate act, the end didn't particularly satisfy. Ultimately, Keep Your Friends Close is less a mystery and more a story about the unraveling of the characters and a marriage.

FLASHBACK FRIDAY :: The Martian

Flashback Fridays are set aside for a few words about a book, movie, television show, album or other favorite thing from my past I think may be worthy of your time.

Today is a trip into the not too distant past necessitated by news trickling out about a movie based on the best book I've read this year: The Martian by Andy Weir. To be directed by Ridley Scott, screenplay by Drew Goddard (World War Z), the cast thus far includes Matt Damon, Jessica Chastain, Jeff Daniels, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Donald Glover, Kristen Wiig, Michael Pena, Sean Bean, and Kate Mara. Reportedly these folks are taking less than their usual payday in order to be part of the movie. If I could buy a ticket today for a November 2015 release, I'd do it.

Why so excited? The Martian blew the doors off my pressure vessel. In a nutshell, Mark Watney is part of a mission to Mars gone wrong. He's stranded with insufficient provisions and no way back. Martian toast. In his own words in the opening line of the book:

I'm pretty much fucked. 

What follows is a logbook of Mark's efforts to get off the Red Planet. I was somewhat reluctant to read it. I don't read a great deal of science fiction. I have no lifelong astronaut dream. I do not work in a job requiring much in the way of math or equations for very good reason. What the hell about this book was going to interest me? Turns out: Every. Damn. Thing.

I don't care who you are or what you read, this book is the first recommendation out of my mouth to anyone who asks (and many who don't), without hesitation. To date, no one has been disappointed. In fact, everyone raved. The Martian has something for everyone. Are you going to understand everything that's going on? Hell no. Does it matter? Hell no.

The Martian is hilarious, sciencey, ulcer-inducing, edge-of-your-seat reading.  If I could force you to read one book this year, this would be it.

I'm also a little partial to Andy as he's a local author and a really nice guy.  If you get a chance to see him at an event, do so.  Ask him how The Martian came to be a book, it's a fascinating story.

WORKING STIFF :: Dr. Judy Melinek and T.J. Mitchell

Chronicling Dr. Judy Melinek's forensic pathology residency at the New York City Office of Chief Medical Examiner, Working Stiff: Two Years, 262 Bodies, and the Making of a Medical Examiner is a dream come true for anyone who has ever wanted to sit down and have a cup of coffee and detailed conversation with an ME. Filled with fascinating (and yes, often gruesome) case studies, the book reads like a grisly chat with a friend. Which makes some sense, as Dr. Judy Melinek wrote the book with her husband, writer T.J. Mitchell.

Although written in reader-friendly language, Working Stiff isn't dumbed-down and doesn't pull punches. It's part memoir, part documentary, part science text, and begins by setting out the author's road to pathology and the role of medical examination:

“'Autopsy' means 'see for yourself,' and it has more to do with figuring out what went wrong in the body than with exploring the anatomy."

An autopsy begins with a thorough external examination and proceeds from the outside in.  That's exactly what Working Stiff delivers, taking the reader on a visceral chapter-by-chapter tour through various categories of death and its aftermath faced on autopsy: accident, poison, decomposition, homicide, suicide, and medical misadventures. It also includes just enough in the way of personal anecdotes to give the reader a glimpse of the impact the job has on both the ME and his or her family, both negative and positive:

He feared that after a few months of hearing about the myriad ways New Yorkers die, the two of us would start looking up nervously for window air conditioners to fall on our heads. Instead, my experience had the opposite effect. It freed me—and, eventually, my husband as well—from our six o’clock news phobias. Once I became an eyewitness to death, I found that nearly every unexpected fatality I investigated was either the result of something dangerously mundane, or of something predictably hazardous. So don’t jaywalk. Wear your seat belt when you drive. Better yet, stay out of your car and get some exercise. Watch your weight. If you’re a smoker, stop right now. If you aren’t, don’t start. Guns put holes in people. Drugs are bad. You know that yellow line on the subway platform? It’s there for a reason. Staying alive, as it turns out, is mostly common sense.  

The final chapters deal with 9/11, subsequent anthrax threats, and the crash of flight 587. These were difficult reading. Even so many years removed, the emotions of 9/11 obviously remain and are brought to the surface quite easily. But those sections are important, for despite the horror and sadness, they highlight the respect and care with which the smallest piece of remains was and is handled by our pathologists, even in the most trying of circumstances.

Lest you think the book is too dark for you, rest assured there is humor to be found even in the ME's autopsy "pit":

I wrote the cause of death as “anoxic encephalopathy due to loss of consciousness of undetermined etiology.” This translates as “lack of oxygen to the brain from fuck-if-I-know." 

I also had a laugh at the many tools utilized in an autopsy that can be found in most any household: a stainless steel soup ladle bought at a housewares store, a butcher's knife that looked "exactly like a family heirloom his mother uses to carve roasts," long-handled pruning shears, a kitchen-variety plastic cutting board, and metal mixing bowls. But as they say, "Please don't try this at home."

STREET SENSE: Highly recommended for anyone curious with or fascinated by the art and science of medical examination and autopsies who isn't looking for a formal medical-science text.

A FAVORITE PASSAGE: Learning to handle human beings who have begun to return to the soil cycle has, more than any other aspect of the job, made me more comfortable with death—though it’s made me much, much less comfortable with houseflies, and leery of cats.

COVER NERD SAYS: Simple and to the point, functional rather than arty, the cover imagery and subtitle provide the reader with a clear message about what's inside. The cover didn't wow me, but the message it provided definitely drew me to the book.

Flashback Friday :: A Cool Breeze On The Underground

Flashback Fridays are set aside for a few words about a book, movie, television show, album or other favorite thing from my past I think may be worthy of your time.

On this inaugural Friday, that favorite thing is a book from the long ago and very recent past. I read Don Winslow's A Cool Breeze on the Underground when it came out in 1991, coming across it fortuitously while perusing a bookstore mystery section (remember those days?). That's when I first fell in love with the Neal Carey series and the writing of Don Winslow.

Last week I started to revisit the series, of which there are five entries, this time on audiobook. I was pleased, though not really surprised, that it held up incredibly well after 24 years. There's not much an author can do when language changes and phone booths become obsolete. But progress can't change the fact that the book is smart, funny as hell, and engaging from start to finish. Winslow's self-assured, kickass writing was definitely a portent of the excellence to come in the decades that followed Cool Breeze. In addition, Winslow brings obvious authenticity to the private investigation details, having worked in the profession himself.

Cool Breeze presents both a real time (i.e., 1976 in this case) mystery and flashbacks to tell the story of how Neal came to be...well, Neal. At age 11 he is semi-orphaned by a junkie mother and non-present father, picking New York pockets to survive. Ultimately mentored by one of his marks, Joe Graham, a diminutive one-armed PI, Neal learns the tricks of the trade.

An astute student, Neal is brought into the fold of Joe's employer, "Friends of the Family," a discreet private investigation agency started by a wealthy, bank-owning New England family. A 23-year-old 18th Century English Lit major at Columbia when Cool Breeze takes place, Neal would rather spend his time in school than taking on Family business.

Given little choice in the matter after he is hand-picked for a job by the head of the Family, Neal travels to London to track down the runaway daughter of Senator John Chase. The case is complicated by the requirement that Neal have Allie home in time to appear at the Democratic National Convention, as her father hopes to be tapped as the Vice-Presidential nominee.

Of course, things aren't all they appear to be, either within the Chase family or the Family itself, and Neal has to dig deep into his bag of tricks to get the job done.

Once you've read and devoured the Neal Carey series, you're going to want to check out the rest of Don's work, which includes:

• Isle of Joy
• The Death and Life of Bobby Z
• California Fire and Life
• The Power of the Dog
• The Winter of Frankie Machine
• The Dawn Patrol (Boone Daniels)
• The Gentlemen's Hour (Boone Daniels)
• Savages (Ben, Chon & O)
• Satori
• The Kings of Cool (Ben, Chon & O prequel)

The Power of the Dog is one of my favorite books of all time and I'd highly recommend you read it before the much-anticipated sequel comes out next year.

Also, if you ever get a chance to attend one of Don's events, do so. You won't be disappointed.

To get a newcomer started, and as a bonus for hanging with me through these "few" words, I'll buy the ebook of A Cool Breeze on the Underground for the first "new to Winslow" reader to request one in the comments.

TGIF

WHEELMEN :: Reed Albergotti and Vanessa O'Connell

Wheelmen: Lance Armstrong, the Tour de France, and the Greatest Sports Conspiracy Ever, is a journalistic account of the rise and eventual fall of American cycling, which begins with an apt quote from Abraham Lincoln:

Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power.

The abuse of power theme pours out on almost every page of this painstakingly-researched, comprehensive look at how cycling grew in popularity in America, first via Greg Lemond in the late 1980s, then the juggernaut that was Lance Armstrong, all the way through the fall of Armstrong and the American cycling program in 2013 and 2014. 

Certainly the book highlights Armstrong, as he became the face not only of American cycling but the American cancer movement, beginning in the 1990s and continuing through 2013. But despite Armstrong's major role in the downfall of the sport, Wheelmen provides a fair and well-balanced portrayal of all the players in the scandal: cyclists (American and foreign alike), team doctors, owners, sponsors, et al. It feels like a quest for the truth, not a vehicle to lambaste Armstrong, which it rightfully could have been based on the facts presented. 

Arrogant, selfish, and some say pathological, Armstrong took whatever means necessary to get himself to the top of the sport and stay there. Which he did, winning multiple Tour de France victories despite a cancer diagnosis, treatment and recovery, and investigations from all fronts. 

Never a good teammate (nor, apparently, a very nice person), Armstrong bullied and demeaned fellow cyclists, pouted or refused when asked to take a supporting role for the good of the team, paid to have doping results hidden, and took part in a successful bribery scheme to ensure a victory. Once his dominance on the team and at the Tour took hold, he demanded his teammates take part in doping or be dropped from the squad, and left behind anyone who dared oppose him, on the course or in life. 

Always the subject of scrutiny due to the scope of his success, investigations into Armstrong's alleged doping came to a head after he left the sport, when prior teammate Floyd Landis tested positive and was stripped of his Tour victory. Landis and others eventually cooperated with the governing bodies, leading to Armstrong's ultimate downfall. He did not go quietly, however, once again asserting his dominance by threatening and discrediting witnesses and attempting bribery to cover up his history. 

The account is fascinating not only on the factual front, but from a psychological perspective as well; both the psychology of Armstrong and the psychology of a culture that fed and supported his power. Could Armstrong have been the champion cyclist he became without the villainous character traits that cost him so much? At some point did he actually believe his own schtick? Despite the numerous investigations and facts uncovered along the way, Armstrong staunchly denied using any PEDs until the bitter end, facing a lifetime ban from all sanctioned competitions (including triathlons, which he had taken up post-cycling). 

Equally as fascinating is the psychology of a society that assigns such value to the athletic heroes it places on very lofty pedestals. It is a need so strong much of the American public was willing, for a very long time, to overlook what had really become fairly obvious. Does celebrity culture spring from a desire and need to believe in the ideals of the American dream? Is it a dream of power and celebrity we celebrate vicariously? Those questions are a book unto themselves. But what is an equally enthralling question is how and why we are so quick to turn on our heroes when they prove to be less than perfect, as Armstrong certainly is. 

Granted, Armstrong's character flaws run deep, but query whether they would have lead him down the path he took if not for the adulation, money, and attention he reaped as a result. To some extent, Armstrong is a product of our own celebrity-worshipping culture and the "money-mad" world of sports. As the authors conclude: "We are willing to ignore and justify the wrongdoings of the rich and powerful." It's difficult to point a finger at Lance without admitting we might deserve a little bit of that finger ourselves. 

Street Sense: I highly recommend this book to anyone interested in sports, cycling, celebrity mythology, narcissism, and/or psychology as it relates to sports and to society at large. A knowledge or love of the sport of cycling is not required to enjoy what is a well-written, fascinating ride (see what I did there?). I listened to the audiobook version and the narration was fantastic.

A Favorite Passage: I can't help but go back to the beginning of this piece and use Abraham Lincoln's quote for this section. It really is the crux of the whole shebang. 

Cover Nerd Says:  I love this cover.  It's no coincidence that yellow is the only color surrounding that fantastic image.  And the photo itself, stark in black and white, is not a glorious image of Lance on a bike, but a gritty and bloody closeup of the man alone.   

CRY FATHER - BENJAMIN WHITMER

I wish I were eloquent enough to put into words why I so love Benjamin Whitmer's writing. You may think it doesn't need explanation, but he doesn't write about nice things. Nary a fluffy bunny, rainbow, or warm chocolate chip cookie will you find between his covers, unless it's bloodied up, coked to the gills, or peed on. And we all know how pee can ruin a good cookie, am I right? Yet somehow Whitmer makes you want to binge on a whole damn box of pee cookies. Like I said, not near eloquent enough. 

I was wowed by Whitmer's first book, Pike (which you should go buy forthwith), and have been anxiously awaiting more ever since. Cry Father does not disappoint. I have a profound weakness for beautiful, lean prose and there are no wasted words here. Whitmer can draw a masterpiece with only a fraction of the crayon box. With the seemingly simplest of sentences, tiniest turn of phrase, something small becomes a chest-kicker. 

For example:

The idiot in the mirror in front of Patterson looks like he might disintegrate.

Cry Father is about many types of relationships, but those of fathers and sons in particular. The sins of the fathers have painted their sons' futures. The question is whether the sons have the will or the character to overcome the building blocks of their rough upbringings and tragedies in order to be better fathers and sons in their own right.

Patterson Wells works clearing disaster areas much of the year, yet he can't seem to clean up the disaster of his life, mired as he is in the grief of losing his young son, Justin, years ago. His ex-wife has tried to bring closure to her grief, both by raising her son Gabe from a brief post-Patterson relationship, and by suing the doctor whose mistake caused Justin's death. Patterson doesn't believe in closure, can barely look at Gabe, and can't conceive of a world without his son, keeping Justin's memory alive by writing to him in a ruled notebook:

Nothing ends, ever. And nothing heals because there's nothing to heal. Losing you is my life now. There's no resolution to it. 

Patterson returns to his cabin in the San Luis Valley of Colorado during the off-season, where he's off the grid, surrounded only by the mesa and his neighbor, Henry. On this particular trip home, Henry's son Junior is hanging around. Junior has no love lost for his old man, who was a cheating, neglectful alcoholic during Junior's childhood.

Junior runs drugs for the local baddies, and knows with every run he is further from being the father he wants to be to his daughter. Feeling unfit and guilty, he wants to wreak violence on his own failure of a father. After one of Junior's visits leaves Henry beaten and bloodied, Patterson calls on Junior to warn him off further brutality towards his father.

Instead, Patterson ends up getting pulled into Junior's orbit time and again, where it seems nothing goes right or ends well. Enter stage left: murder, biting, stoning, shooting, grave-digging, drug heavies, dog-kicking, ear-ripping, and butterfly kisses. Yeah, that last one was just to make sure you were paying attention. What results is a harsh ride, beautifully told. All that remains is to see what type of sons and fathers are standing at the end.

Street Sense:  I highly recommend both Cry Father and Pike, along with whatever Benjamin Whitmer writes next.

A Favorite Passage: "Turns out there's no better medicine for heartache than surviving a murder attempt and stealing a car."

Cover Nerd Says:  Cry Father's cover art blew my socks off. I would have picked this up off a bookstore table even if I didn't know what it was about or who the author was. Is it a picture of dirt (minerals? pollutants? some drugs mixed in?) on the ground, or is it something of a dirt explosion taking place above the Colorado mesa? The cover even has a slight texture to it, perhaps an inkling of the grittiness to continue inside. The font is a beauty as well. This will definitely be in the running for one of my top covers of 2014.