"White Man's Grave", by Richard Dooling

Plot Synopsis: Richard Killigan is a Peace Corps volunteer in Sierra Leone who goes missing. His father, a wealthy workaholic bankruptcy lawyer in Indiana, and, Boone, his best friend, both undergo a quest to find the missing volunteer. Bush devils, juju, Baboon men and witches make things difficult.

My Two Cents: My house in Cameroon was a vast, expansive thing that was too big for just me. As a result, most of the rooms were empty, save for a lone chair or an extra matress. The empty rooms used to reverberate with sound, and I would sit in them and play guitar, amazed at how acoustically big it sounded. On one afternoon, I was standing on the front porch with my neighbor, a young guy who was studiously cautious about my role as a Peace Corps volunteer and prone to such statements as "that Prezedent Bush- Chi!", at which point he would shake his head in disappointment. As we were talking, I heard footsteps in my parlor. They were loud and distinct, moving from the roadside of my house to the hallway. My heart started pounding. I said nothing to my neighbor, hoping it was just some chloroquine-induced audio hallucination. But he quizically looked at me and said, "Did you hear that?", pointing towards my door. We both went inside and found nothing- no evidence of forced entry, even though my back door was locked, no footprints on the dusty red floors, even though this was the height of the dry season and I was right on the only road to Nigeria, 30 miles away. The house was empty. The footsteps- which we both clearly heard- seemed to come from nowhere.

This wasn't particularly unusual. I had come home before to find my front door wide open, even though I was the only one with a key. And I would have dreams that were often eerily connected to the feeling that I was not alone in my house. Mamfe was an area prone to juju and shape-shifting and this kind of thing. One of the first stories of witchcraft I heard in Mamfe was from my other neighbor Ebai and his neighbor, a gendarme whose name I forgot. Across from their house was a field that another neighbor used to grow pawpaw, perhaps fifty square yards of field. The gendarme told me, over palm wine one night, that a young girl in the cartier had died and the night after they had the cry-die, the whole cartier had woken up to these terrified cries coming from the pawpaw field. When he came out of his house and turned on his torch, the girl who died was standing in the middle of the field, naked, screaming and crying. I asked him what he did and he said he ran back inside. Ebai, a fellow teacher and one of my best friends in Cameroon, claimed he was out of town that night and didn't see it. They told the story as if they didn't believe it themselves, but it was a shared experience, so, it at least felt real to them.

The best juju story I heard in Cameroon was by a guy I met in the backyard of a friends house in Besongabong, a small village just a few miles west of Mamfe. I was there with a couple of my Be'sak members and, for some reason, we were talking about ghosts. I was mentioning how it seems ghosts in the Western world usually don't appear as physical apparitions- they are usually like poltergeists, but in Africa they present themselves as living beings. Immediately, this guy turns to us. He seemed legit, a government employee who spoke decent English. He wasn't crazy.

His story went like this: He was in an off-license in Douala talking to a friend in Keyang, his local dialect. Douala is at least twelve hours away from Mamfe, if not more, so to hear someone speaking Keyang in a bar down there would be cause for comment. Apparently there was a man there who recognized the dialect, came over and sat down with him for a while. The group exchanged several beers and the man suggested they go back to this house for more drinks. They take a cab and go back to this guys house and drink more Castels and continue talking. As the night comes to an end, the man tells him to go back to his village and look up his parents to tell them that he's doing alright. He hasn't been to the village in a while and would like to let them know he's okay. So the man does this.

He finds the guys parents working in the farm in their village. As he approaches them and tells them what he is there for, they back away from him, their machetes out as if they are warding him off. "Our son done die sorti!" they exclaim. The son had died several years ago in Douala. The man was completely, utterly spooked. It haunted him for days. In fact, he was so distraught that he went back to Douala to find the man. He found the bar, but the bartender had no recollection of the man. Worse than that, when he went to where the house was, it wasn't there. The house simply didn't exist. It was a ghost, through and through. A real live African juju.

With all this being said, Richard Dooling's "White Man's Grave", which was actually a finalist for the National Book Award in 1994, takes the peripheral belief of African witchcraft and moves it front and center. It is a meandering, repetitive, mean-spirited novel with nary a likable or believable character. In fact, the novel read like a second-rate Thomas Wolfe novel. And Tom Wolfe novels are second-rate by their nature. Picture "Bonfire of the Vanities" set in the jungle of Sierra Leone. Even the Africans were portrayed as imbeciles. I used to talk about how Cameroon would be a great place for an action movie, even to the point where I had Harrison Ford as a retired college professor who joins the Peace Corps, only to have his host brothers mysteriously murdered during the night: let the speeding bush taxis, black market automatic gun fire, and spooky witchcraft begin. The difference between my movie and "White Man's Grave", however, is that my movie wouldn't suck. This was a disappointing, irresponsible novel. I have read several of Dooling's short essays and they are great and intensely readable. Its a shame that a novel with such great potential would end up being so bad.

My Grade: C-

"Disgrace", by J.M. Coetzee

Plot Synopsis: The 1999 winner of the Man Booker Prize, "Disgrace" tells the story of 52-year old David Lurie, a communications professor in Cape Town who gets involved in a messy affair with a student and loses his job. He moves to the countryside to stay with his daughter, who has a small piece of land where she keeps a modest dog kennel and farm. A tragic, violent event throws both Lurie and his daughter's lives into disarray.

My Two Cents: I had to get the bad taste out of my mouth after reading "Kirinyaga", so I picked up "Disgrace". I had found it in a thrift store in Manhattan months ago, but never got around to reading it. I read in obsessive spurts. I can read 15 books in the span of a couple of months and not read anything beyond a magazine for a couple of more months. I'm beginning to find my stride again, and, if "Disgrace" is any indication, I'll be riding this one for a while. One issue I have with the type of literature that demands Booker recognition, is that the novels tend to be more character studies than plot-driven. It gets frustrating to realize that you've just wasted two hundred pages of your life reading about someone thinking. "Disgrace" begins like this- a late middle-aged author struggling to maintain his relevancy- but quickly turns into something much more visceral. Coetzee has created a likable, believable narrator, one who is very much aware of his flaws. There is much about the putting down of dogs, those last breaths of canine life, and Lurie's relationship with these animals and a kind of blossoming awareness of the source of his decisions. This is hopeful, because it indicates that all of us continue to learn about ourselves, which seems to be missing from most Booker Prize narrators (most of whom are surly, unlikable and boring. You know, like your parents.). The tipping point in the novel comes at the right time, is substantially jolting, and propels the novel into its second half. This is probably the best Booker Prize winning novel I've read since Peter Carey's novel on the Ned Kelly gang.

My Grade: A-

"Kirinyaga", by Mike Resnick

Plot Synopsis: A Y.A. science fiction novel about a Kikuyu tribal leader who hopes to create a utopian society, based on African tradition, on a satellite planet of Earth.

My Two Cents: What happened to artistic humility? After reading this rather stupefying, preachy young adult novel about the dangers of a "utopian" society, I got to the "Author's Afterward". "How does one go about writing," Resnick muses, "the most honored science fiction book in history?" Huh? You mean besides "Farenheit 451" or "Brave New World" or "1984"? Nooooo. Well, then, you must mean "Dune" or the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy, perhaps even Asimov's "Foundation" trilogy. Nooooo. The guy is actually referring to his own book and lists a series of second place and honorable mentions from various SF outfits to support his claim. Puhleeze.

My Grade: C-

Sonic Youth Plays Daydream Nation @ McCarren Park Pool, Brooklyn, NY, 07/28/07

Plot Synopsis: Three old guys and my wife go to see a band of even older people play an old album that everyone liked when they were younger. T-shirts, beer and tote bags are purchased. Chloe Sevigny stands right behind us. The moon is full, the night is beautiful, and Sonic Youth is in the house. It doesn't get much better than that.

My Two Cents: What is up with "Chocolate Rain"? At first I couldn't tell if the guy was for real, but, after further research (Yes. I did further research), I found out he was, well, serious. His song has been re-mixed hundreds of times. There is a McDonald's parody, a Darth Vader parody, and an Eastern European woman sings it with her acoustic guitar. There are a gazillion club remixes. He was recently on "Opie and Anthony", whoever they are. His video- five minutes of a keyboard arpeggio over a casio beat, and his unsettling baritone- has been hit almost TWO MILLION TIMES. That's quadruple PLATINUM. For "Chocolate Rain"! Unbelievable.

Which brings me to Coney Island.

We went to Coney Island on Sunday. If you haven't been there, I had a friend once describe it, in her infinite, innocent wisdom, as being like "Virginia Beach for poor people." It was raining, so we dipped inside Ruby's for a couple of beers. They were playing Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett on the jukebox. I went to the jukebox, not really intent on playing anything, and this Hispanic man came up to me, grabbed my wrist, put two dollars in my hand, and pointed at the juke box.

"You play," he said. My first thought was this: He must be gay.

"Play what?" I said. He shrugged his shoulders.

"I no care. Sinatra. That stuff." My second thought was this: He's gay and he needs to be in an adult ESL class. "It confuses me."

I put the two dollars in the machine and started scrolling through the artists. Before he went to sit back down, he told me NOT to play any SPANISH SHIT, NONE OF THAT PUERTO RICAN, SANTO DOMINGO SHIT, I HATE THAT SHIT. And so on.

It turns out that he wasn't gay and he could speak English pretty well. He was from Jersey, via El Salvador, and used to be a jeweler in Midtown. And he hated that Spanish shit. Hated it.



My Grade:

"The Great White Surprise" November/December 1999

Plot Synopsis: This is the third issue of GWS. I don't have the second issue; in fact, the only thing I remember about the second issue is one of the volunteers supplied me with some surprisingly funny "Dear Dr. Sammy" Q&As.

My Two Cents: I gave this issue to a volunteer over the Christmas break in 1999. We were in Egypt at the time, in a hostel. Giving someone the GWS for the first time always made me a little nervous, because I was anxious to see what they thought. She was lying in bed reading it, as I sat in the other bed across the room. When she finished she handed it back to me and said, "It's not very funny".

Then my friend Joe came in and put Vaseline in his hair.

In my opinion, I think there is some very funny shit in here, hair gel or not. The West African Christmas is a truly inspired twist on the traditional Santa Claus story. I love the poem by Mr. Njeke Jama, as well as the illustration of the Twin Manenguba Lakes. And I completely forgot that a student of mine at GTTC Mamfe, a teacher's training college, asked me if genetics was the reason some women gave birth to yams.

My Grade: A+

"The Great White Surprise" September 1999

Plot Synopsis: 30-year old man joins the Peace Corps in 1999 and goes to Cameroon. He self-publishes four issues of "The Great White Surprise", a DIY zine about, er, the life of the, uh, typical volunteer.

My Two Cents: In retrospect, "The Great White Surprise" is actually pretty nasty and mean-spirited. I'm not sure if it was a cathartic move on my part, having to spend so much of my time inexplicably smiling and shaking hands in Cameroon, but the humor is fairly cynical, and, purposefully so, based on inside jokes. But it is an honest representation of my admiration for the people I served with for two years. I think about Cameroon every day. And none of it is nasty, mean-spirited, or cynical.

You can enlarge the photos by clicking on them.

My Grade: A+ (I'm grading myself, after all.)

Movie: "Joshua" (2007)

Things to be thankful for:

1.) I am thankful my wife is not a whithering mess of hormones and melodrama, prone to bouts of temporary insanity and red-faced sessions of uncontrollable weeping.
2.) I am thankful my wife comes up with her own dialogue, rather than having to rehearse lines written by someone who graduated from NYU film school.
3.) I am thankful I don't have a gay uncle.
4.) I am thankful I don't wear tighty-whities.
5.) I am thankful I never knew that death lurked around every hidden corner of Grand Army Plaza and the Brooklyn Museum of Art.
6.) I am thankful that this movie only stole an hour and forty-five minutes of my life. I would have probably spent it doing something shameful, anyway.

Honestly, at the end of this film, the denouement, if you will, is delivered as the nine-year old devil spawn breaks into song. And- I'm not shitting you-it sounds just like fucking Cat Power.

Bob Mould, Cat Power and Built to Spill @ MCCarren Park Pool, Brooklyn, NY, 07/07/07

Plot Synopsis: Three acts take the stage at a renovated public pool in the Williamsburg neighborhood of Brooklyn. While chaos does not ensue, the lines to get beer were absolutely ridiculous.

My Two Cents: I bought a "Metal Circus" t-shirt when I was a senior in high school. I wore it to school one day and when I walked into English class, Lulan Yu- and, yes, I am using her real name, although I have yet to google it- pointed directly at me and said, in that sing-songy circa mid-80s voice, "Ohmygod, you like Husker Du?". At that point, I suppose, I should have dropped to my knees and began singing the bridge from "Celebrated Summer", but instead I smiled through my braces and crooked glasses and walked into a desk, wracking my balls and ending the conversation.

On that note, I didn't actually see Bob Mould. I could hear him as my wife and I walked past the venue to the bar. My wife joked that someone was playing that sounded like him. Hey. It was only six-thirty. I thought the show started at 7:30.

As for Cat Power, let's just say that her popularity is inexplicable. It's not that I think she's without talent. I like some of her stuff. It's just that she sucks, in a kind of bland, soul-sucking way. She's just not impressive.

Which brings me to Built to Spill.

Like the t-shirt I bought in 1985 from Mothers Records and Tapes on the second floor of Lynnhaven Mall, near the food court, I once stumbled into Skinnies in Norfolk and pulled Built to Spill's first album "Ultimate Alternative Wavers" from a stack of CDs next to the register. The proprietor of the store, a long-haired thirty-something font of alternative knowledge and an owner of one of those creepy, synthesized drum kits, looked at me, much like Lulan Yu did nine years earlier, and asked me "Why are you buying this?". He held it between his fingers as if it was a dingleberry. He wasn't implying that the band was bad; he was implying that I was buying it before he had time to even hear them.

While the first album didn't quite hook me- it is flawed in a wonderful, experimental way and it was great hearing "Nowhere Nothing Fuck Up" outside on a beautiful July night- the next album got me right through the proverbial gums. "There's Nothing Wrong With Love" is an iconic album, perhaps the best rock album of the nineties- and this includes "Nevermind" and "Grace" and all the other albums that are typically thrown around in these conversations. A year later I would see them at the Neurolux in Boise, a sparse, beautiful show. On the way back to my brother's house, a cop on a bicycle stopped us on the campus of Boise State because my brother was weaving. The reason this is funny is because we were walking.

It's unfair for me to review a Built to Spill show. The band means too much to me in a way that's probably unquantifiable. They represent my brother's gutsy move to Idaho, his friendship with Andy and his acceptance into a new town. They represent weekends at my family's beach house in North Carolina, where my brother told me, in a long, drunken evening, to go, man, get out of Norfolk. They represent the Peace Corps and my move to New York City, where I've seen them every year they've toured. Above all, and most simply, they represent joy. They make me just plain giddy. And that's coming from a class A asshole.

As for the show on Saturday night, they didn't disappoint. I missed about four songs because I was in line for beer, which is what good husbands do. When I got back wielding two Brooklyn Lagers, my wife was five feet from the stage dancing rapturously to a cover of "Third Uncle", which is a Brian Eno song, but I know it from the Bauhaus version. It was a great pick for a cover. Doug played a stripped down, haunting version of "Car", which kind of made me try to picture my brother and Andy, the drummer on that album and Jon's impetus for moving to Boise, in the kitchen of the Trellis, Andy trying to convince Jon that he hasn't seen anything until he's walked the Green Belt to the Anne Frank memorial. They closed with "Carry the Zero", one of my favorite BTS songs, with one of my favorite lines:
You have become/A fraction of the sun/The middle and the front/And now it's coming back/Hasn't it come to far?

I think, ultimately, that's why Built to Spill means so much to me: they have a way of channeling that fraction of the sun. There's a lot of hope in their music, a lot of happiness, and for someone who tends to view the world through a cynical lens, it's nice to have something that makes you feel like dancing.

Thanks, Built to Spill.

My Grade: A

A special thanks to Ian! May the wind always be at your back!

Pitchfork Vs. Pelican

I bought "Australasia", Pelican's first full length, on a visit to Boise to see my brother. I spent the rest of the afternoon aimlessly driving around Idaho roads, blasting the CD in his '82 Cherokee. It was fitting: arid and dry, like the Idaho hills, punctuated by inviting vistas of deep, deep lakes. In this case, these were lakes of GUITAR, dude (queue the devil's horns). Not mind-blowing, but definitely the kind of post-rock I can groove on. A few weeks later I saw them play at the Knitting Factory, on the wings of their second album and in the throes of "buzz-worthiness". So the place was filled with geeks, crowded and shitty. The band played well, but the sea of Nigel hipsters was over-whelming.

Speaking of Nigel hipsters, Pelican just released a new album called "City of Echoes". You can stream it, in its entirety, on their website. Whether you or I like it or not, the folks over at Pitchfork, arguably the most influential music website on the internet today, and the guys who coined the term "nigel hipster" (referring to the character from "Spinal Tap", and any hipster who has an ironic love for Slayer and black metal.), gave the new album a rating of 4.4. A 4.4!!! This band is going to summer school! This band is getting evaluated for an IEP! (IEP= short bus). But it's not the 4.4 that bothers me; I never agree with any of their ratings. What bothers me is that they gave it a 4.4 because of the fucking drummer!

I'm a class A dork. I usually read a lot of reviews before I purchase an album, buy a book or see a movie. But I've never read a review of a band before that lashed out so viciously at one person in the band. That's it, the review begins. Fire the drummer. The reviewer then spends five more paragraphs specifically skewering the drummer. It's vicious and it sucks.

The reason it sucks is because, first of all, the guy isn't a bad drummer. He's not a great one in a genre that is prototypically heavy in the awesome drummer department, but he does his job. But the other reason is because this isn't Brad Pitt or George Clooney. This isn't Bono or Mick Jagger. This is a kid from Chicago making rock and roll and, most likely, working a shitty job to pay the bills to support himself between tours. As important as Pitchfork is, I'm sure the band is cognizant of the reviews being written about "City of Echoes". It seems unfair that a website that sings the praise of non-musicians such as Peter Bjorn and John or Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, would lash out so nastily at the musicianship of a drummer. And dis the entire album because of it.

I was a musician who played in bands that nobody liked. I could accept the fact that my bands, in most cases, were perenially opening up for more popular bands on the weekends because we couldn't draw enough people to justify our own show. It didn't matter to me that someone didn't like our music, because I liked it. So a bad review or a remark along the lines of "You can't dance to it" wouldn't bother me. But I always had the respect of my fellow musicians for my talents as a singer and a guitar player, and I was thankful for that. It kept me going. An attack on my abilities as a musician would have had me chasing someone down Colley Avenue, wielding my guitar like an axe.

As bloated and self-righteous as Pitchfork can be, they are pretty thorough in their reviews and I've found some good stuff because of them (Amon Tobin, DJ Shadow). But with this review, I feel they've hit a new low. Directing a critique at the dubious skills of the drummer is a blow to the balls. I hope "City of Echoes" sells hundreds of thousands and the drummer inspires millions of teenagers to slip in and out of the beat.

Loney, Dear @ Union Hall, Brooklyn, NY 06/10/07

Plot Synopsis: Loney, Dear is the one-man band of Emil Svanängen from Sweden. He recorded several albums in the basement of his mother's house, pressing the recordings on to CD-R and selling a few thousand by word of mouth. Sub Pop recently signed him and his last two records- "Sologne" and "Loney,Noir"- were released by the Seattle label. His music is pure, unadulterated Swedish pop music, both joyous and morose.

My Two Cents: The performance space at Union Hall is in the basement, which seems apt for a guy who recorded most of music in a place very similar. It is small and intimate, maybe holding a hundred people. One thing about shows in New York City- and I don't ever see this elsewhere- is this flippant attitude that some of the fans have. I don't know if this is because they are jaded by the sheer volume of performers that pass through, or if their free tickets render them cool, yet uninterested. Regardless, some of the worst concert-going experiences I have ever had have been in this great city. This is not the fault of the bands. It's the inexplicable fault of the fans who will dish out fourty something bucks to see, say, Wilco, and talk, at full volume, the entire show. This doesn't matter if it's Wilco's brand of lazy southern rock or a Norwegian black metal show. It always happens.

It is a testament to the crowd at Union Hall Sunday night, that when Emil entered the stage with his acoustic guitar and asked the crowd to hum a one-note sustained "HMMMMMM" as he gently finger-strummed some open chords, the couple from Virginia next to my wife and I, were quickly shushed. I know they were from Virginia because they were trying to talk over the music. LEAVE, already! GO UPSTAIRS TO THE BAR! This will never, ever make sense to me. But forget all that: by the second song, Loney,Dear had everyone in that place enraptured.

His band- a female backup singer, a keyboardist, drummer and bass player- all hailed from Sweden and were playing their last show in the U.S. before heading back. They had been touring extensively for the past three months and this experience showed in spades. The band didn't miss a beat. The songs are simple and build around Loney, Dear's vocals, often building up and swirling around the melodies into something explosive and beautiful. On the flip side, Emil can often stun with his falsetto, ending the show with just his guitar and voice, stepping away from the microphone even. After the second encore, the backup singer was teary-eyed. It was their last show in the U.S. after all. Emil's mother- he mentioned this mid-set- was going to pick him up at the airport the next day.

I see a lot of bands. Very few leave me with any emotional impact, especially now that I am old and curmudgeonly. But Loney, Dear showed that some talent just deserves to be heard. Go to his MySpace page NOW and listen to these songs, before he blows up.

My Grade: A

"Vernon God Little", by DBC Pierre

Plot Synopsis: A 15 year old high school student in a Texas border town is wrongly accused of abetting a school shooting, a la Columbine. His fugitive status finds him looking for refuge in Mexico, while the media, his family and the law are all biting at his heels.

My Two Cents: As a high school teacher, and in the wake of the Virginia Tech shootings (where I went to school to learn how to take psychedelic drugs and drop out after two years), Pierre's novel strikes a painful chord. I suppose what is good about the book is that the shooting themselves are pushed to the back in favor of blood-thirstiness of the media, which is Pierre's main cultural phenomena to be skewered. The book is told from the point of view of 15 year old Vernon Little and his voice gets a little tired after hundreds of pages. There are some great characters and the book moves quickly, but, all in all, the novel sometimes creates pat, almost stock Hollywood plot devices, that make it much too easy to get out of situations that are plainly meant to suck the characters down like quick sand. Be that as it may, the novel was entertaining, and, as a debut novel, I will probably be interested in reading his next book, too.

My Grade: B

Movie: "Masters of Horror: Cigarette Burns" (2005)

Plot Synopsis: A rare-movie, only screened once, causes people to partake in bad acting and speak in horrid French accents.

My Two Cents: This is the same guy that made "Halloween", the greatest movie ever, dude. That scene where Jamie Lee Curtis is smoking a joint in the Nova, listening to Blue Oyster Cult on the radio, is primo. And stabbing Michael Myers in the eye with a coat-hanger? Forget it. He is SOOO awesome. This can't be John Carpenter. This must be, like, his retarded step-sister or something. This movie sucks.

My Grade: See me after class so I can punch you in the stomach.

"Last Orders", by Graham Swift

Plot Synopsis: Four men from England make a pilgrimage to the seaside to honor a mutual friend's last wishes. On the way, they reminisce about the paths their own lives have taken.

My Two Cents: My relationship with books reached it's zenith in Africa, I'm sure. I read voraciously and books were cherished because they were hard to come by. Most of the time books were passed from volunteer to volunteer and the two-year stint in Peace Corps became an opportunity to finally read "War and Peace", "Crime and Punishment" and the Lord of the Rings trilogy. And there was nothing like laying in bed on a sweltering weekday afternoon, the fan blowing directly on me, no sounds outside except for passing trucks or over-stuffed taxis, and being lost inside a book. One of the best books I read in my two years in Cameroon was "Waterland" by Graham Swift, about a prep school professor and the Fens in England, a rich, epically written novel that stayed with me long after I read the book.

"Last Orders" wasn't nearly as good as "Waterland"; in fact, at times I hated it. Each chapter is told from the perspective of a different character; however, the voices are not that much different from one another. On top of that, the characters have names that seem to bleed into each other- Vince, Vic, Ray, Jack, Lenny, Sally, Amy and so on. So I was continually flipping back, trying to find out the relationship between the characters. Swift is much too good of an author not to see the problem in this, so I'm imagining it was one of his narrative tropes- to show that these four friends, after years and years of being together, had become "one". Or something. It was quite frustrating.

That being said, as I got further into the novel and became comfortable with who was doing what, the book got better and better. Swift has a way of nailing nuances in life that are simply never covered in literature, in this case- which is prevailing theme of the novel- that nether-world of inebriation between sobriety and drunkenness, where everything seems more acute and powerful, getting slowly pickled and at peace with the world or sweetly stewed on his account,referring to their lost friend. Then he smiles, weakly, Swift writes, after the men have left a pub at two in the afternoon, drinking to the memory of their friend, like a man always can after he's just emptied his bladder. But more than this, "Last Orders" is about the drama that is inherent in everyone's lives, whether it's drama that happens like a flurry of gunshots, or one that festers for a lifetime. It is a book that is certainly worth reading.

My Grade: B

Movie: "The Killer of Sheep" (1977)

Plot Synopsis: This is more of a "period" piece than a film with a narrative arc. It focuses on a man, who works in a slaughterhouse, and his family, in the Watts section of Los Angeles in the early '70s.

My Two Cents: This is a stunning film, even more so considering it was Peter Burnett's master's thesis at UCLA in 1977, and never meant for mass distribution. There is no plot per se; Burnett focuses entirely on Stan and his family- his wife and two kids- and their relationship with Watts. At times it seems almost apocalyptic and many scenes reminded me eerily of some of the bigger towns in Cameroon- sparse, dusty and forgotten. The connection between Stan's dead-end job at the slaughterhouse, where he cleans up after the sheep that have been skinned and butchered, and his life at home, where he wearily goes through the motions- languidly dancing with his wife, buying a used motor that falls off the back of a truck, playing dominoes in the kitchen- all bring to question the difference between those who do the cutting and those who get butchered. He is a sad character, but he is surrounded, it seems, by moments of hope. His wife loves him, but is mournful about his weariness. He revels in being the father of his son and his daughter. And the town of Watts is noisy with the sounds of kids being kids- throwing rocks at passing trains, play-fighting in abandoned lots, hiding on roofs. Why this film was not released earlier and is just getting released, in the near future, on DVD, is beyond me. It is a special film that captures an indelible moment in American history. And, for that, it deserves any recognition it can get.

MY GRADE: A

"The Deposition of Father Mcgreevy", by Brian O'Doherty

Plot Synopsis: A priest in an Irish village lives on top of a mountain where all of the women have died and the men are fucking sheep (I'm not kidding). He spends a lot of time walking down the hill to the town where he defends the sheep-fuckers.

My Two Cents: While I'm not a big fan of bestiality, it was strangely satisfying to read a novel that dealt with sheep-fucking on a literary level. There was some hogwash about the sheep representing the pagan Irish mother-god and so on, which only makes the thing incestous rather than beast-uous, so I don't know what's worse. When I e-mailed my brother to see if he'd read the book he replied I think there was a lot of going up and down a hill to town, which is pretty much it. It was certainly better than Banville or Atwood, but, ultimately, I found myself trying to finish the damn thing before any more farm animals were defiled. Baaaaah.

My Grade: C

"Life of Pi", by Yann Martel

Plot Synopsis: A sixteen year old Indian boy is stranded on a raft with a zebra, a hyena, an orangutan and a tiger. Guess which one survives?

My Two Cents: "Life Of Pi" won the Booker Prize in 2002. The French are turning it into a movie, which means it won't be destroyed by Hollywood. It is, however, one of those novels that can exist only as a novel and that's because the book works on a lot of different allegorical levels, some of which are easier to see than others. I won't say a lot about it, other than the fact that it is conducive to page-turning. And I mean that in a positive way.

My Grade: B+

"The Blind Assassin", by Margaret Atwood; "The Sea", by John Banville

Plot Synopsis: Neither book has a plot.

My Two Cents: Atwood's Booker prize winning novel is 538 pages of boring musing by an unlikable elderly Canadian woman. Banville's Booker prize winning novel is 195 pages of boring musing by an unlikable elderly Irishman. They should both collaborate on writing another Booker prize winning novel about an Irishman and a Canadian woman who give birth to a boring, unlikable elderly child.
And then we can all die happy.

My Grade: D

"The Color of Water: A Black Man's Tribute to His White Mother", by James McBride

Plot Synopsis: James McBride grew up in Brooklyn projects, in a family of 13, raised by his step-father and his Jewish white mother. The novel switches back and forth from his own story to his mother's- a harrowing story of growing up Jewish in Suffolk, Virginia in the 1930s, and falling in love with a black man.

My Two Cents: I recieved this book for Christmas. My first reaction was this: What in the hell? Why did my sister give me this book? When I began reading it, it became clear to me. I live in Brooklyn and I grew up in Tidewater, which includes Suffolk, so it only makes sense that my dear sister would think I would like this book. And, surprisingly, I did. It's not particularly well-written. In fact, the writing is a bit lazy. The story, however, is irresistable, especially the stuff about the author's mother. I can only imagine how terrifying it must have been to be a white teenage girl- Jewish at that- in Virginia, getting pregnant by a black man. It was a story worth writing about. I liked it.

My Grade: B

"Nickel and Dimed", by Barbara Ehrenreich

Plot Synopsis: Barbara Ehrenreich took jobs as a waitress, a Wal-Mart employee, and with a maid service, to see if she could make it on a minimum-wage salary.

My Two Cents: The best thing about this book is that the author has soooo much room for politicizing and proselytizing, but she choses not to, at least until the last chapter, instead letting the experience speak for itself. And when she does proselytize, it is so eerily like my own current employment situation, it makes you want to run out and unionize every possible group of workers you can find. Case in point: she wonders why low-wage workers don't act in an economically rational way, meaning, holding out for better pay. Her reason? Because when you enter the low-wage workplace, you check your civil liberties at the door, leave America and all it supposedly stands behind, and learn to zip your lips for the duration of the shift. Just recently, at my place of employment, the administration literally removed the door from the teacher's lounge. Barbara, I hear you loud and clear. Workers of the world unite. You have nothing to lose but your chains.

My Grade: B+

"A Continent For The Taking: The Tragedy and Hope of Africa", by Howard W. French

Plot Synopsis: Howard French is New York Times reporter who's family lived in Cote d'Ivoire. The book covers the recent political and social turmoil in Liberia, Nigeria, Rwanda and the Congo, with particular attention to post-genocide Rwanda and Congo and the cost of the Hutu-Tutsi strife that lasted long after the horrid one hundred days of carnage in 1994.

My Two Cents: I've read a lot of books on Africa since I returned from my Peace Corps stint in Cameroon in 2001. This is the second best one I've read, Aidian Hartley's "The Zanzibar Chest" being the best. The difference between the two, beyond Hartley's more lyrical framing of his story, is that they cover two different Africas that are very much alike. While Hartley focused on the Sudan and Somalia, French travels to Liberia at the time of Charles Taylor's rise to power, and, more interestingly, to the Congo after the Rwandan genocide. His interaction with the Rwandan refugees and the crisis's toll on the Congo were enlightening. Rwanda's influence literally made it's way into the highest government circles in Kinshasa, throwing the capital of Africa's largest and- arguably- most important country- into all too familiar chaos. This was a riveting read, well-written, and highly recommended for anyone interested in the fate of Africa.

My Grade: A-