Month: June 2012

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Malice In Blunderland– review on Goodreads

Malice in BlunderlandMalice in Blunderland by Jonny Gibbings

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I’m guessing Johnny Gibbings read in a how-to-write book, or on a website someplace “try to abuse your main character as much as possible” and then he thought to himself “oh, I can do that.” And thus we have Malice in Blunderland, the story of a man riding the rails of unapologetic violence and humiliation. I’m thinking this might even be a genre of fiction. The kind of novel that would be enjoyed by those who go online to watch videos of guys wrecking on their skateboards. Part Irvine Welsh (Filth, not Trainspotting) part JG Ballard (the wince-worthy parts of Crash), a picaresque without any of that bothersome metaphor and theme.

Look, I’m not trying to slag the guy off here. Lots of people are going to love this book. Yeah, there’s clichéd characters, deux ex machina in spades, plot twists as predictable as anything you’d see in one of those 80’s mass-produced comedies… there’s typos and I’m even going to complain about how my particular e-reader didn’t like the formatting of the .mobi file I received. But Johnny can write. I swear, I’m not being facetious—plot, character, setting, who gives a damn—Gibbings’ prose style is good enough for me, good enough that if he writes another book, I’ll probably read it.

I say probably because there really where parts of Malice that made me cringe. And I think it’s fair that you, as a reader, should decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I read American Psycho, was glad I did, and swore I would never read it again. I saw Natural Born Killers, thought it was brilliant, and resolved I would never give it a second viewing. But I know there are people who reveled in the painful textures those pieces provided, and I think they’d love Malice in Blunderland.

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What I’ve Done On My Vacation

Fair warning: this will be a dull post. I’m just going to recap some of the writing I’ve been doing over the last few weeks (Since June 1st).

Here at Bukkhead: two short stories, three book reviews, six other pieces, one of which I also posted on the blogs at Runner’s World.

Over at Wiffli: “Oops, Forgot a Title,” “Screw You, BMI,” “Anybody Else Seen Snooki’s Boobs?” and “Gwyneth Paltrow Used the N Word (With Asterisks).” (By the way, if you want to write something on Wiffli, just let me know.)

On AntiPundit: “First Post in 2+ Years,” and “Nothing Could Be Finer Than to Be in a Vagina.” (You can post political opinion on AntiPundit too, if you want.)

Total: 17 bits, 10481 words. This doesn’t cover a few longish e-mails to friends, or a blog post I made on the internal corporate website at work. Or, ha, this post.

Also, I ran 65 miles.

For the month of June, so far, it looks like the “bad” day was June 9th—no running, and no writing at all. According to my paper journal, I didn’t do much—I watched the Mariners lose, and I hung out with some friends at The Bottlehouse. I think I mowed the lawn that day.

And all of this while suffering from Vestibular Neuritis (I am, this week, fully recovered). How? Why? I really do think it’s this lack of idle web-browsing. Granted, there was some Bejeweled Blitz in there, some Diablo III, some Hitman Absolution: Sniper Challenge, and a lot of Draw Something, Words with Friends, Wordament, and Plants Versus Zombies. But still, I got a tell you, this web-browsing fast has really upped my productivity.

I could really use a nap, though.

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I Am Getting So Damn Tired of All These Ninjas in My House.

fiction by Jason Edwards

I am getting so damn tired of all these ninjas in my house. Stupid Japs. Look, I am not a racist. I’m not racist. I have three friends with Jewish names, my neighbor is a black guy, very friendly, and as for the Japs, I even like sushi, okay? I am not racist. I’m just so tired of all these ninjas in my damn house!

Like the other night, I’m in bed, trying to sleep, long day, I work for a living damn it. Then I hear something. Silent assassins my ass. I open my eyes, and up there, clinging to the ceiling, a ninja, just watching me. So I roll out of bed real quick, and thwip thwip thwip, three throwing stars right into the pillow where my head was just at! So I pull out a samurai sword from under the bed—yes, I have a sword, and you would too if you had ninjas—and when the little fucker drops down, I cut him up, good. Now I’ve got ninja blood all over my samurai sword, my bed, my clothes. And that pillow is ruined. I had to spend the rest of the night cleaning up, burying the body, bundling together towels for a pillow for the night since JC Penny isn’t open that late. I work for a living god damn it!

If they were predictable, that would be one thing. I can go two, three weeks with nary a ninja. And just when I think it’s over, it’s done, like they don’t come around in the spring or something, I’ll go to get some cereal out of the pantry and there’s one squatting there. Thwip thwip, use my cereal bowl to deflect the throwing stars, he comes flying out, I dodge, rip open the refrigerator door to block his ninja kick, and when he falls back, hurl the toaster-oven at him. I think the people at Bed Bath and Beyond are getting suspicious. I’ve been through, like, five toaster-ovens that way. I like toast.

I told James at work about it (he’s one of the guys I know with a Jewish last name). He thought it was a metaphor. “Get some Ninja-spray, Al.” They’re not goddamn slugs! They’re ninjas! 15th century feudal Japanese assassins! They’re not going to kept away with some pest strips and a good bleaching. Jesus Christ.

I showed him my scars. “I got this one a month ago. I was washing my car, minding my own business, and I couldn’t find the squeegee, you know, to wipe the water off the windows. Then I remembered it was in the trunk from when I took the car to the car wash that time. So I go to open the trunk, and out comes this ninja! In broad damn-it daylight! All dressed in black with that faggy red sash around his waist, waving a katana like a flag in a parade! He got me good, right here, before I wrapped the garden hose around his legs, punched him in the back of his head a few times, then stuffed him back into the trunk. Had to get seventeen stitches. The deductible on the insurance is killing me, James!”

He wasn’t impressed. Tried to show me a scratch he had on his shoulder. “Swordfight ,last week, with a pirate.”

I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me, until Dave popped up from his cubicle. “My sister was chased by zombies last week.” James just stared him like he was an asshole until he sat down again.

So far, I’ve been lucky, I guess—it’s only at home. There’s this bar I go to a few times a week, a nice little place, clean. Got a nautical theme. Pretty much anti-ninja, which is nice. I’m in there once, and this old pro’s sitting next to me. Seen her a few times, she knows I’m not shopping, so we just talk about sports or whatever. I tell her about my problem. “One was hiding in my bathroom once, in the tub, I could see him through the curtain. Managed to slice him down before he even made a move, buried him in the same curtain. So that was an easy one.” I laugh at the irony of it , sip my ginger n’ rye.

“You sure they’re ninjas? Maybe you got Yakuzas.” She’s smoking a cigarillo, looks almost more like a bandito than a pro, in her cowboy hat and bandoleer and chaps.

“What, the Japanese mafia? Naw, they don’t wear pin stripe suits or sunglasses or have elaborate tattoos. Just short little fuckers in silk pajamas and face masks.” I shudder and finish my drink. Munch some peanuts.

“Maybe they’re in disguise?” The door opens, this huge werewolf thing’s standing there, she pulls out her six shooter and plugs him between the eyes, blows smoke off the barrel and reholsters. “Silver bullets,” she says.

I shrug. “Another one, Larry,” waggle my glass at him. “Maybe. Seems pretty elaborate. I mean they only attack me at home. I figure Yakuza, they’d go for a car bomb or something.”

She shrugs back at me, adjusts her hat, stands up and throws some bills on the bar. “Maybe it’s an honor thing. I gotta git—got a client at 3:30.” Then she moseys off, sound of gunfire coming from outside after she leaves.

I get up to the use the can, and right before I open the door, I get nervous. I got my hand stretched out, just frozen like a jerk. What if there’s a ninja in there? I don’t have my samurai sword, I’m not quite drunk yet but a good ways along, so my reflexes won’t be so good. What if there’s one in there, got his katana and nun-chucks all ready to go. I’ve led a good life, I guess, other than this ninja thing. But am I ready to buy it, right here, in this shitty little bar, a handful of peanuts my last meal?

The light underneath the door goes off, and I didn’t even realize it was on, and I get this cold rush down my spine, cause that means someone’s in there after all, and I’m still standing there with my hand out when the door opens and Chuck Harper walks out. He goes “oops” like I was grabbing the door right when he opened it. Heads back to the bar. I get the shakes, go in, feeling stupid, cause like I said, they never attack me anywhere except at home. Make a mess on the toilet rim, I’m shaking so bad. But I get it cleaned up as I calm down, a bunch of TP, three flushes worth. I ain’t no slob.

I’ve tried everything. I’ve called the cops, but they don’t seem to care. I saw a psychiatrist, just to make sure it wasn’t all in my head. By the time we were through my second session, she told me “Al, you’re not crazy, okay? You’ve got ninjas, and that just happens sometimes. I can give you a prescription for valium, to calm down between attacks, if you want.” I took the scrip, but never filled it.

Camus, I think it was, in Myth of Sisyphus, said something about how, once you accept your punishment, it isn’t punishment anymore. At least that’s what the back of the book said—I never read the whole thing. Of course, he was talking about the punishment we get for bothering to stay alive. Like it’s our own damn fault we’re so miserable, when there’s always the suicide option. It’s not giving up, and it’s not noble, either. It’s just a choice, like choosing a blue tie instead of red a one. I can quit my bitching, let the ninjas do what they do, or just man up. There’s kids starving in Africa. They don’t got ninjas, but they don’t got boiled hot-dogs on Fridays either.

(Ninjas came at me while I was cooking those once. Spilled ‘em on the floor in the ruckus. I was pissed something terrible, let me tell you, for that one. But I still ate ‘em.)

Anyway. Here I am, sitting in my living room. TV’s busted, big crack in the window, pile of dead ninjas ruining my sofa. Three of ‘em. Three of ‘em came at me at the same time. I thought they were supposed to work alone. Maybe they’re getting tired of me too? Maybe they’re getting fed up with how many times I haven’t been killed by them yet. I don’t know.

Sure, I could just let ‘em do it, let ‘em kill me, let ‘em then dissolve back into the night. Cops’ll call it a heart attack or something. I’m 54 years old, that’s not too young. But it’s the principle of thing, isn’t it? Okay, fine, ninjas killed my dad, and his dad before him. It runs in the family, maybe. But I thought we were supposed to be making the world a better place, each generation. Thought we were supposed to be happier. I need this curse like I need a hole in my head. I need to be digging ninja graves in my back yard like I need new taxes. Gimme a damn break!

And now there’s a sound coming from the ceiling, a scrabbling sound, and I can hear something crunching over the broken glass I laid down in the crawlspace. Five of ‘em in one day, are you shitting me? I’d move, but let’s face it, the housing market ain’t what it used to be. I guess this is just my cross to bear. Stupid ninjas.

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You Gotta Run Slow

Posted this over at Runner’s World, just for the heck of it…

Bit of background: always wanted to run, usually hated it: lungs, blisters, etc. Finally read No Need for Speed, realized slow running was just fine. Finally found out about non-cotton socks. Finally found a way to run and not hate it. Been at it now 4 years, 3600 lifetime miles, one marathon, dozens of halfs, currently 40 years old, 5’8” 185 lbs, etc. I’m so average, I make vanilla look exotic.

Back when I got started running I aimed for 10-minute miles. Longer runs dipped into the 11:30 per mile range at the end, and I could scorch a 5k at 9:45 per if I didn’t mind resting a few days after. I never really tried to “train” for speed—I was just trying to stay on the road longer, if I could. I remember the first time I ran for 75 continuous minutes. Almost  7 miles! It was glorious. Almost as glorious as the beer I had afterwards. Okay, fine, beers.

Books and magazines recommended so-called “Tempo” runs, but frankly, I was baffled. How do people know what pace they’re running at? Is there really that much difference between 10k pace and half-marathon pace? Can a person really know that they’re running at “10 seconds less than 5k pace.” Ah well. I was just in it for sweat and the excuse to listen to loud music in my iPod. On good days I might have been able to say “I finished that guitar solo one telephone pole earlier than usual, hmm…”

I figured I’d just log a few thousand miles and see what happened. And what happened was that I did get faster, of course. I live in Seattle- it’s hard to not run up hills here. And hills just make you faster. And running longer, naturally, makes you faster. And I started running more consistently, too. Instead of a run starting around 9:30 per mile and ending around 11:30, I was better able to stay within 30 seconds or so of per-mile variance. Not an elite achievement, to be sure, but the mark of a little road experience.

Unfortunately, when I say  got faster, I got only faster. It got to the point where a 5k run or a 10 mile run was at about 8:45 per mile, give or take.  No matter what. (I know this isn’t really “fast.” I ain’t qualifying for Boston at that speed.) I still had no idea how people were able to know the difference between their various tempos.

And I was so in love with running. I wanted to do more than 15 miles per week, but I just couldn’t manage more than three days out of seven. Maybe four every once in a while. More than that and I was getting overuse injuries. It was very frustrating. Yes, I was faster, but I felt like I was back at the drawing board.

So one day, I decided, if I’m back at the beginning, I’ll start over. Why not? Why not run slow, like I used to? Yes, when I started, a 5k was a marathon. So I’d try running at my old pace. I went out and did 5 miles at about 9:45 per mile. It was tough, forcing myself to slow down. Had to put slow songs on my iPod, songs I’d never run to before. I am living proof one can run while listening to Adele. Not ashamed to say it.

And I tried running slow again the next day. And then a third day. No soreness, no fatigue. I decided to take another page from the conventional wisdom, and force myself to rest one day. But after that, I did another three-day mini streak—and two of those days where back-to-back eight milers! I had run six days out of seven, and covered three times as many miles.

So here I am, falling in love with running all over again, and logging more miles, more days. I’ve got way more songs that are run-appropriate now to try out. And since more running means I get to drink more beers, I’m thinking this “run slow” thing is actually a gift from the Heavens. Lotterty, schmottery. I got my miles!

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Couldn’t Disagree More, Runner Ted

Over at Runner’s World Ted Spiker’s written a little ditty about being true to himself, and not letting summer indulgences ruin his goals. Getting in his runs and not letting the weather stop him, not eating too much. Good for him. But I couldn’t disagree more.

Let me quote the lad:

Manage Indulgences: Vacations should be fun and relaxing and, at times, rule-breaking. But you’ve got to get out of your mind the fact that a couple of bites of a coconut-covered something-or-other means you automatically go all in. Bite, enjoy, bite again, step away. Eat right 90-some percent of the time; feel no guilt the rest.

Oh god, no. It’s not that you get to automatically go all in, you get to go all in by virtue of having lungs and a heart i.e by virtue of being alive i.e because you #$%^&* want to. Eat till you pop! That’s what vacations are for!

Rock the Mornings: You have to start every day strong: Get your runs and lifts done early and you won’t feel like ruining it with a frozen drink that has the caloric equivalent of an entire grocery-store aisle.

Won’t feel like ruining it? Ruin a run with a frozen drink, Ted, seriously? Sometimes the only reason I run is for the beer afterwards. Which is why I try to drink them on my non-running days, too, for the sake of consistency. And yes, that means I drink them in the morning. But it’s summertime, which mean the sun is out early, so it’s not like I’m drinking vodka shots in the gloom of a winter morning. Not in the summer, anyway.

Step Back: We know, we know. You stopped weighing yourself this spring when you grew frustrated with a plateau. But you know what? You’re going to step your cheese-loving arse back up on the scale to keep yourself accountable and gauge your progress. Because you have made some, and you’ll tell these good folks about it soon. You are—are!—going to come out of this tempting (yet glorious) seasonal stretch with a smaller number than where you started.

What’s this accountable nonsense? Are you running to lose weight, Ted? You little cheater! Running’s not for losing weight! I’m not saying you gotta gain when you run, I’m just saying: the run should be enough. You know those commercials: What’s your Anti-Drug? For me it’s “What’s your Anti-Diet?” Running! I run so I don’t have to weigh myself.

In Ted’s defense, he does title the blog entry “Letter to My Summer Self.” And I’ll never begrudge a man his inner dialogue to get himself going. Probably, Ted’s better looking than me, faster than me, thinner-even-when-he’s-fat than me. (He’s certainly a better writer than me and more famouser).

But he’s delusional. Eat the coconut thing, Ted. Drink the frozen drink. Smile while you do it, love the calories, and go bust out a fartlek. Not because you have to, but because you can. Attaboy.

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Good to Be God– review on Goodreads

Good To Be GodGood To Be God by Tibor Fischer

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

If you’ve seen the movie Slacker then you know it’s not about a bunch of lazy people sitting around in puddles of their own apathy; everyone in the film is more or less actively engaged in some pursuit or interest. Maybe none of them are trying to cure cancer, but the film’s title forces you to reconsider the context of your assumptions. I only mention this after meditating on the title of Tibor Fischer’s Good to be God for a week after reading it.

Tyndale Corbett decides, after giving up on hope, to become God. Fair enough; it’s as good a scam as any, and not unprecedented: Buddha didn’t just wake up one day to enlightenment, but had to suffer from some extremes before he deduced that extremisms just wasn’t where it was at. But what kind of God will Tyndale become? What is his understanding of God?

That’s what this book is about: taking a fish out of water (dirty polluted water) and seeing how it flops. Tyndale flops just fine, and finally discovers his true God-given gift: the gift of failure. It’s mediocrity, that curse of the middle class, taken to the extreme. Tyndale is no Job, suffering, nor is he a Christ figure, self-sacrificing. He’s almost, but not quite, a cooler, a guy who’s very good at making sure nothing very good ever happens.

And that’s Godlike, if your God is a God of mediocrity, middle-class hopelessness. What would the God of faithlessness be like? Tyndale is surrounded by slackers (in the sense of the film I mentioned above), apostles and witnesses to his ascension through inertia.

And (here’s the review part, finally) it’s all told via Fischer’s wit, his flowing style, his playfulness with the written word that at times keeps you guessing (was that really a monkey spinning discs) and other times punches you right in your soul. He gives you enough stuff that you can read into the story if you want and hang symbols all over the place; or if you just want to read a mildly amusing tale about a fat Britisher living in Miami, there’s that too.

Too often rich people say money isn’t everything, or beautiful people say beauty is only skin deep. A middle-class guy telling us that struggling for happiness is depressing can come across as “don’t know how good you got it.” But feeling sorry for oneself, here, is balanced by just the right amount of thankfulness. Angels can have tattoos too, you see.

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Potrzebie (Without Apologies)

Con call in half an hour and I just can’t be bothered. Book to read, less than 50 pages to go, and I just can’t be. Bothered. Just watched Weird Al’s “Fat” video, followed up with Michael Jackson’s “Bad.” Laughed the whole time I was watching the MJ. Not that it’s a horrible video. Actually it’s pretty darn good. Actually, and this might be the old man in me talking, it hearkens back to a day when music videos where a thing. I don’t know if they’re a thing anymore. Have not watched Mtv in years. I guess I do see things on Youtube, so maybe they’re still a thing.

Naw, I laughed the whole time because I had just watched the Weird Al version, and during the MJ I was only able to think of the WA lyrics. That happened the other day too: we were in the car, some new remix of Bad came on, and I was singing the Fat version throughout. Al Yankovis is a genius. It’s been said before, it will be said again.

But this is a rambling blog post about how I can’t be bothered. Normally, in this mood, I’d go to Reddit, or Pinterest, or Tumblr. Woe is you, I’m writing instead. Already wrote two lengthy emails to friends this morning.

I’m STILL clicking on Facebook every ten seconds, but that’s mostly megalomaniacal, since I like it when people respond to any content I generate. That’s why I have everything linked to Facebook. I had a dream about Mark Z last night—I was at some friend’s wedding, in the hotel in the hours before it all got started. Mark Z was there, played by Justin Timberlake when he was still in N’Synch, with that bleached hair with the tight curls. Except it was orange, and he had a black goatee.

Meaningless, all dreams are meaningless, so I only mention it to entertain. Are you not entertained? Gladiator quote.

Cause that’s what most writers are, you know. Bloggers, self-incarcerated gladiators pitted against the soft-copper armor of their own ennui, their self-perceived inaquecies, and all of us desperate for that ironical insight that makes what we spew funny if not interesting.

Me for example: I sure do spend a lot of time by myself. I’ve taken to talking to myself, or, if not to myself, to imaginary interlocutors, out loud. I even had a conversation with myself out loud about it today while making a sliced-turkey-and-lefotver-satay wrap:

-Do you think I’m stupid?
-Yes.
-What?
-Yes, I think you’re stupid.
-Oh, you think you’re smart, eh?
-Yes, I do. And I think you’re stupid. Can we talk about something else, please?
-You’d like that, wouldn’t you?
-Hence my requesting it.
-What?
-And we’re back to how stupid you are again. Brilliant.
-Yeah, you’re the brilliant one.
-Your sarcasm is ill conceived I’m afraid.
-What?
-Oh god I could use some illegal pharmaceuticals.

Not that I’d know what to do with them. Lately running a little too much and writing things no one reads has been my pharmaceutical, but for what, I don’t know. I mean besides boredom. Lately, and I don’t know why, I’ve been in a really bad mood. I drive places, the radio is on, the Mariners are losing, some asshole in a Lexus is driving ten miles under the speed limit and so some other asshole in an Acura cuts in front of me to take an exit; meanwhile, I’m thinking I need to change lanes but there’s another asshole in a Prius sitting on my left rear bumper, talking on his cell phone, and then I notice the handicap sticker and I get even angrier because, handicap parking, grrr, don’t get me started.

What’s the point of all this? I don’t know. I don’t have a thesis statement. Con call in 15 minutes, Pandora keeps playing ads at me whenever I skip songs that DO NOT FIT THE STATION I AM LISTENING TO and I don’t feel like rereading this and editing it into making sense. Nothing makes sense. Nor does it have to. There, there’s your furshlugginer thesis statement.

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The Little Things are Big Things

Call me silly, but I just noticed that the time and date on the Mickey Mouse watch on the Ipod Nano page is current and correct. The second-hand moves and everything. This is 100% unnecessary and 100% awesome.

I only noticed this because I was at the website to have a gander at the font they used, to sketch an image in my paper journal. My own Nano started acting up a few days ago, so I had to schedule an appointment with the nearest Genius Bar. I was chronicling the experience.

Which was this: I made an appointment, went over there—a fella poked at my Nano for a few seconds, took into the back, then returned and said “Yep, it’s busted. Yep, it’s under warranty. Here’s a new one. Have a nice day.” I’m streamlining for the sake of brevity, of course, but my point is: wow. If only all customer service experiences could be so smooth.

I think for the most part, the vast majority of the time, customer service experiences are just fine. It’s only the one terrible one in a hundred that gives customer service, in general, a bad rap. This is why we somehow feel like excellent customer service is a gift.

As for me, I’m not such a power-user that any one device is going to suit my needs better than another. Price is going to be the main deciding factor, but I’ll tell you this: with customer service like that, Apple can continue to count on my custom, even at higher prices.

Same’s true for restaurants with a friendly waitstaff. There’s no food so delicious that it makes up for indifferent hosts and rude waiters. And personally, a PBnJ-fan like myself can eat just about anything, if it’s served with a smile.

I’m just assuming that whatever ethic at Apple established that kind of customer service is also behind the watch face on the website showing the correct time. Attention to detail, considering the experience from the customer’s point of view, balancing respect for the bottom line with a long term vision of brand loyalty.

Yeah, I’m coming across as a total fanboi right now. What can I say. That watch thing totally charmed me.

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What It’s Like, Looking Like George Clooney

fiction by Jason Edwards

I know what you’re thinking.

You’re thinking: this guy right here, he looks just like George Clooney.

I get that a lot.

My dad looks like George Clooney. My mom looks like George Clooney.

Which makes me wonder about my dad.

My sister looks like George Clooney, which is weird, because I don’t even have a sister.

I called him up. I called George Clooney, and all was like, hey man, how many of my grandparents did you sleep with?

And he’s all: at the tone, the time will be one, thirty five.

Asshole.

I had an imaginary friend when I was a kid, which was cool, but last week he tried to friend me on Facebook.

Awkward.

He’s always imaginary poking me.

But what really sucks is his Farmville score is higher than mine.

Asshole.

George Clooney called me a few months ago. I figured he was pissed because I used his picture on my Facebook account. But I answered the phone anyway, and he’s all like, have you considered switching your cell phone service to AT&T?

Which was weird because I don’t even have a phone.

My sister calls me all the time.

She called me once and said, George, just remember, cell phones cause brain cancer.

And I’m going to call you once an hour to remind you of that.

But the jokes on her because I don’t even have a cell phone.

Or a sister.

It’s not easy looking George Clooney.

This is going to shock the ever-lovin’ heck out of you, but I don’t get out much.

Women come up to me, and I’m thinking, here we go with the George Clooney nonsense again.

And they’re all like, can you please leave the women’s locker room, immediately?

What the what? I was just looking for my sister.

I go to restaurants. You ever been to those? Nice.

I go up to the hostess and I’m wearing a hat, hoping she won’t recognize me.

She says, how many in your party?

And I say, It’s not my birthday.

No, she says, how many will be dining with you this evening?

I just shrug. I don’t care, as many as you want.

So she takes me to a table and I sit down and I say don’t worry. Just because I look like George Clooney, I’m not going to skip out on the bill.

Can’t promise the same for my imaginary friend.

Oh, did I mention? He looks like George Clooney too.

I mean, that’s what he tells me. I’ve never actually seen him.

I think he has the hots for my sister.

I can’t rob banks.

They’ll think George Clooney did it an innocent man would go to jail.

Not cool.

Can you imagine how awful it would be? For George Clooney? In jail?

All those anal rapists, saying, George, George, do some of that Oceans 11 shit and get us outta here.

Cause they’re in jail, they don’t know about the sequels.

And you know what sucks most about rape?

All of it.

I learned that on an afterschool special.

And don’t worry, I’m not going to make a joke about my imaginary friend raping my sister.

Not cause it’s not funny.

I just can’t think of any.

I’m dating this girl, and thank god, she doesn’t look anything like George Clooney.

Because that would be like having sex with a mirror, which I’ve done, and let me tell you, it’s not as fun as you would think.

The pillow talk afterwards was really awkward.

And when I didn’t get a call the next day, it was a real bummer.

But my girlfriend, now, she’s great. She looks like Jennifer Aniston.

Which was an easy switch for me because I actually used to date the real Jennifer Aniston.

It was pretty good for a few months, but when she found out we were dating, she dumped me.

But she stills sends me a birthday card/restraining order every few weeks, so we’re cool.

She’s very cute about it. She disguises it as a flyer for lawn services.

I’m guessing she does that so the postman won’t know who we are.

Although when he catches on that I don’t have a lawn, the jig is up.

Or a mailbox. Being homeless and everything.

But back to my girlfriend. She’s great. Except when she flirts with my imaginary friend.

You know what I mean. She laughs at his jokes. Asks him where he buys his imaginary clothes.

Pokes him on Facebook.

But other than that, and the fact that she doesn’t exist, she’s wonderful.

She’s an amazing cook. She makes this vegan steak tartar. It is out of sight.

I’ve lost ten pounds just thinking about it.

She gave the recipe to my sister, which was awkward, since my sister is a vegetarian, not a vegan.

When I was dating the real Jennifer Aniston, we used to get into fights about what to have for dinner.

I’d say Jen, Honey?

And she’d walk off the screen and I’d have to talk to Joey.

Who never talked back.

Asshole.

So it’s a good thing we broke up. I mean can you imagine. What if we’d gotten married?

And the real George Clooney’s girlfriend reads about it, standing in line at the supermarket?

She’d think her boyfriend got married without telling her.

And marrying someone without telling them is not a good idea.

Been there, done that.

Just ask my imaginary friend.

He got married to Stacy Kiebler. I have no idea who that is.

But she and I are friends on Facebook, so there’s that.

Anyway. I should probably let you go.

Just wanted to let you know what it’s like, looking like George Clooney.

What time will it be at the tone, did you say?

Thanks.

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Barney’s Version– Review on Goodreads

Barney's VersionBarney’s Version by Mordecai Richler

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Came to this book as penitence for shame: was talking to a friend who’d either seen the movie or listened to the book on tape, and I made some dismissive, derisive comment about it, to the tune of “Oh, I don’t much care for characters like that.” I had based that summation entirely on a clip of the movie I’d seen, I think on The Daily Show. My fellow interlocutor pointed out that I was being hasty in my judgment, so I agreed I’d get over myself and read it.

And so I read it. It took a long time. I was coming back from a not-reading-anything-jag and while at first Barney’s Version was compelling and fun, It seemed to drag a bit. But that might just have been me. I did very much like the character, after all—-not that I respect him, or feel that initial judgment of him (from the film clip) was off-base. I’m saying I enjoyed his confessions.

For that is what Barney’s Version amounts to: an aging man gives you his side to the various stories that make up the biography of his life: as an expatriate, as a repatriated TV producer, as a Canadian, as a Jew, as a husband, widower, husband, two-timer, husband, divorcee, accused murderer, smoker of montecristos and drinker of congnacs. Barney’s Version is a modern picaresque, a rich Canadian Jewish Confederacy of Dunces.

Mordecai Richler’s story-telling style is subtle without being obscure, entertaining without being (too) silly. Barney manages to tell not only his own version but his enemies’ version as well, and couches it all in the poor old man’s encroaching dementia and his son’s compilation footnotes. The reader is left to wonder what’s fact and what’s fiction, what’s real and what’s fantasy. Barney doesn’t just make things up to cover his guilt, he gets things confused because that’s how memory works.

And in the end, the life you led is not what you did or even what you remember of it but how you remember it all. A terrible life can be lensed by a happy regard, and those torturous years on earth where maybe not so bad. Barney seems keen to find the right balance between “I got better than I deserved” and “but I made the most of it.”

Your interpretation may vary: sign of a deep, complex, good read. For myself, I’m looking forward to trying out some other Richler novels.

View all my reviews

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