Plasma-Replenishing Books

One of the perks of getting the plasma filched from my body is that it takes roughly one hour and 15 minutes. This means that I get to sit in the Brave New World chairs with relatively little movement for that long twice a week while I watch my blood drained and separated into its two parts, one of which comes back into me and the other that becomes a gelatinous apple juice colored substance in 880 ml bottles. Watching the process is not entertaining, despite how I have described it, and the other things going on are immeasurably more exciting, like the gossipy labcoats zombying around with the glazed look in their eyes that comes from having to open plastic packages of tubes all day long, and I also like the occasional flirty interaction between a patient and a technician. The latter makes for some good overheard conversation, like this one I heard yesterday:

Patient: I see you are out on the floor today. Being punished?
Labcoat: No, this isn’t punishment! But I’ll make it punishing for you if you’re not careful!
Patient: Uh oh. Nurse! Just kidding. So what’s up?
Labcoat: You know, same old stuff.
Patient: Yeah.
Labcoat: Yeah.

Nevermind. In truth, watching flirty interactions and the labcoat zombies is horrible, especially as you are getting the metallic taste in your mouth from the red blood cells being pushed back into your prone body. So that is why I always bring a book. Sometimes I bring two books, which is ridiculous for many reasons, but it makes me feel like I will be studying instead of just complacently reading, so I do it. Studying is darn near impossible at the plasma eatery because my writing arm has a big needle in it, and if I tried to lift my forearm to write, the needle would come out the back of my arm where my elbow is, kind of like when Natasha Henstridge’s tongue bored a hole through the back of some unlucky card’s neck when she was French-kissing him in Species 1. So I can’t write, which means I can’t study, which means I should not bring two books.

At any rate, I usually take this opportunity to read beyond my scholarly interests into other interests, like my interest in literature that I don’t have to write about but that helps me conceive of the world. The literature that matters could be a good description of it, but it unfortunately does not matter at all towards my advancement in a career that cares little about what you do if you haven’t published something about it.

Before I get to the brief reviews of the books I have been reading lately, let me outline my criteria for selection. First, if the title is obscure enough that it is not considered a “classic,” but at least two different people (or publications) have strongly recommended it independently, I will usually read it. I call this my “mouth of two witnesses” rule. Actually, I don’t call it that, nor will I now. Some examples of the results of this method include: The March, Cold Mountain, Herzog, Underworld, Maus, Runaway. Second, if I stumble on a review in a decent publication that intrigues me, I will read the book being reviewed. Examples: Gilead, The Meaning of Everything, Arthur and George, The 9/11 Commission Report, Reading Lolita in Tehran, Starting Out in the Evening. I’ll add that I have often been burned by this method. The last criteria is that I found the book in a discount bin. This is actually how I pick most of the books I read. Some examples: Christine Falls, Brother I’m Dying, The Best Short Stories 200-, The Best Spiritual Writing 2008, I Am a Strange Loop, Saturday, Being Dead. I have almost never been burned by this method, oddly enough.

So here is a quick list of some recent titles I have been reading for fun to refill my body with knowledge as my plasma and soul are drained by Biolife, Inc.

The Reformation by Diarmaid MacCulloch. This is the most comprehensive book on the Protestant Reformation that I have found, and the most well-written. MacCulloch’s memory bank must be one of the Swiss kinds because he knows everything and has some valuable nuggets hidden away as well. The book is almost a thousand pages, I think, but it is accessible to the non-specialist. As far as I am concerned, the history of the Reformation is about as important a topic for understanding ourselves, as a nation, race, religion, whatever, as just about anything. MacCulloch doesn’t romanticize anybody, even if his fondness for Cranmer occasionally shines through, and his clear explanation of the theological debates helped to disabuse me of way too many misunderstandings that have been perpetuated by such a colored and biased approach to the topic that I have been exposed to since an early age. After reading the book, I had the distinct impression that if I had just been told a more accurate version of this story, I wouldn’t have had so many crises of faith later in college when I was trying to understand the logical underpinnings of the doctrine to which I ascribe. Of course, I feel the same way about our own church history, but that is beside the point here. My point here is that this book is a must-read, stand-up-and-cheer 1000-page rollercoaster ride through the sixteenth century in Europe. If you just go to one movie this summer, make it this book.

Los Angeles Magazine. The plasma place usually has magazines to choose from, but they are too often People, Us, In Touch, or Car and Driver. I won’t get on my high horse by saying I don’t read these magazines, I do, but with the first three, there is nothing to read because it is all pictures. I go through them so quickly that by the time I get stuck in the arm with the needle I have already forgotten if Victoria Beckham or Hayden Panneitiera look better in the little blue getup that they both wore to different premieres. Oh, and People is the worst magazine on the planet because it is really just an Us magazine without the speculation and blemish close-ups. In other words, it is good for nothing. So, imagine my excitement at seeing the latest Los Angeles Magazine for perusal. I love local magazines, even the insufferable New York ones. I invariably read everything in them. The articles are almost always interesting and they give journalism a local habitation and a name, especially when they talk about local restaurants and review films and books that relate to their geographic distribution. Anyway, if you're ever getting a haircut or getting your soul sucked from your right arm, always choose the magazine with a city name in it.

Hella Nation: Looking for Happy Meals in Kandahar, Rocking the Side Pipe, Wingnut’s War against the Gap, and Other Adventures with the Totally Lost Tribes of America by Evan Wright. I actually read a review about this book in the Los Angeles Magazine that I just praised, and the thought of reading about Hollywood agents turned right-wing documentarians and the Russian mafia in Phoenix intrigued me. I will not recommend this book to the bulk of my readership because the subject matter is often too risqué for even my tastes, which are extreme in some circles and prudish in others, but the articles that this guy wrote for Vanity Fair, Rolling Stone, and Esquire are wonderful little portraits of the American West run wild. The short piece about the Aryan brotherhood inmate who manipulated a pair of respected lawyers to adopt a fight dog and raise it is one of the most chilling and bizarre stories I have ever read. Wright is a good writer, even when I am suspicious of his journalistic methods. I can’t help but wonder about his involvement with some of these characters in order to get them to speak—it’s a little like Truman Capote leading on the In Cold Blood killer by suggesting that he will defend him in the book.

Brother, I’m Dying by Edwidge Danticat. I have to admit that I only read the first 70 pages of this book before giving it away to Kathryn’s sister, so my review is based on the first third of the book alone. This, however, is usually my method when grading student papers so I consider myself an expert at it. In fact, just give me the introduction and I'll give you the review, and a grade. I had read The Farming of Bones by Danticat a few years ago, and I thought her voice was honest and unforced, which is hard to do when you are writing about a topic that has been so ignored by the world at large (the history of Haiti). Brother, I’m Dying is a wonderfully lyrical memoir about her father and uncle. And then the first 70 pages ended.

Christine Falls by Benjamin Black. Benjamin Black is the pen name for John Banville, former winner of the Booker Prize and otherwise snobby Irish writer with a penchant for vocabulary obscurities and pedantry. Benjamin Black comes out anytime Banville wants to write in a popular genre, like the noirish crime novel. This noirish crime novel is smart, dark, serious, and angry, which are all things I would expect from a literary novelist who dips his hallowed hand into the muck of genre fiction. The book is good as an exercise in crime noir, and there are occasional passages that are incredibly good writing, but I couldn't help but be turned off by the tone of the book--not of the protagonist but of the writing. Banville seems to be a little bit of a literary show-off, and the book suffers because of it. Not that I didn't read it in two sittings and poured over the details, which I did, but the novel left me with a bad taste in my mouth, like I was just read at or something. Well, if you like noir, read this because it is a good example of its kind. But if you dislike showboat smarts, skip it. I should add that I enjoyed the book so much that I learned to put aside Banville's crap for the duration of the novel, only to be surprised at my own vituperation while writing this mini-review.