I have been tearing through books recently, due to my snazzy iPad Mini. I did a review a couple weeks ago, and I like that type of post, so here goes another one, this time 4 (5?) books and not three.
I will review the first three here, and then do the last two – both by Hunter Thompson, in a separate post. It would be too much to swallow for the four of you who read this, so thank me in the comment section. Also, Thompson’s stuff is so different, so raw and wild and unique, that I think it needs its own little place. Not to take away from Hawking, Sagan or Zinn, they are great minds that have touched mine with their work … I just think that Hunter wouldn’t really fit in and kinda demands his own space. Anyway, it could also be that I just don’t have the back muscles to sit here and type for 3 hours about books I read for an audience of three, 2 of which won’t read past
Tell me how to keep the smile on my face when I start every morning hacking like an old revolutionary until lung butter splatters the toilet bowl like adolescent lust. And clings to it like a first crush. Every morning ya’ll. I quit smoking and I remember someone saying that the first few weeks/months after quitting you’ll be hacking stuff up. But I know the difference, I’ve hacked up cigarette lung funk before and the consistency is different. What’s rocketing out now looks to be actual chunks of lung.
And my son stands there and watches me. I am his source code for all things, so no sooner do I wipe my lips and moan like I just barfed up last night’s party, then he hacks and spits for all he’s worth, letting me know that he’s doing his best to learn from me. I look into the mirror and see blackheads forming twixt me brows and feel the rattle of leftover lungsnot like the distant rumbling of Mongolian hooves. It aint over yet.
OMFG i have to get out of this place. I have to get my son out of this place.
Imagine a four-headed know it all troll with a broad streak of arrogance at the helm of the Gray Pearl in the midst of the Perfect Storm, the End of the Known World dropping off into Nothing on one side, the whirlpool that almost got Ulysses on the other. If you were a hand on that ship and one of the heads screeched out:
and the others laughed, sneered, snorted and leered and then joined in the clamor with their own screams of :
What would you do? If this were a movie, you would look into the camera and connect with the audience in one of those “isn’t this ridiculous” moments that does so much to relieve tension and instill hope. Then while the troll screamed, the lowly deckhand would seize the wheel, “Fifty Men all lost at Sea …” on his lips and a flagon of ale dangling from his belt, and rip the Pearl through the Straits of Insanity into the calm periphery of the storm, where mermaids want to be girls and the Sea King looks like Yahweh.
And we would be saved.