Right Up the Spine

Well, things have changed. Since I last wrote, a number of things have changed. I can't really say that they were a result of reading Lady Chatterley's Lover, but that book did get my brain going in ways I didn't expect.

Earlier this week, I played a quickie show on no sleep. I didn't know how I was going to survive the process, but watching the video later reaffirmed my faith in my abilities. The guy who booked me even wrote me afterwards to thank me for playing the show again. If they're ever looking for a guy who looks like a strung-out meth-head to sing about creative stagnation and corporate greed, I'm set.

I've been getting the NaNoWriMo e-mails again. I did try to write last year -- it was another result of life stress providing inspiration. I would write at night, clicking my laptop keys and hoping that they wouldn't wake her up. Of course, the cycle would go through and things would be okay. And I forgot all the work I did and all the emotions I had. It's a shame, because I really enjoyed the world I had created. Seemed so wrong to leave it unfinished.

I think I'm going to try something completely different this year. I have an idea for a tv series that I always knew I would have to wait to try. People don't want to commit to big ideas unless there is big money involved. But I don't have to convince anyone to commit to a book.

Now, to contemplate shrews.

Boy, did I forget about this blog or what?

I got an e-mail from Tamatha telling me that my review -- my only review, sad to say -- was going to be posted on Pajiba this Friday. Ecstatic? You betcha! Then...

hang on, that's for the cb-iii. i signed up for that at the beginning of the year, i even had other reviews saved on my hard drive. i read a ton of books this year! what happened?

Life got in the way, is what happened. Last year, I felt that my guitar playing and performing had become non-existent. I worked out a deal with a friend of mine to host an improv show every week, the songbird of the bar. I told myself I would come up with something different to do every week.

I'm pretty sure that for a few months, I had the two things juggled. I was playing music again and consuming books in the way that I loved. And thanks to the surprise Kindle I received for a previous Christmas, it was easier to take a bundle of books with me. Even if they were public domain and occasionally trash, it was still something to read.

And then March happened.

and I didn't feel like reading anymore.

Then July happened.

And I stopped wanting to play music.

And now, it's October.

I'm in the middle of working an almost 50-hour week, I'm about to undergo a major relationship change, I've become an uncle, and I feel drowned.

Jim Doggie's CBR-III Review #1 - The Fountainhead

Enshrine Mediocrity, And The Shrines Are Razed

A review of The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand.

Wait, wait, come back. I promise this won't hurt.

Ayn Rand's third novel tells the majestic (to read her hero-worship descriptions) tale of Howard Roark, an architect thrown out of school for not following style assignments and making modern-looking buildings when everyone else is still copying Early Colonial. Knowing what the hell any of that means doesn't matter when there is all the juicy drama to enjoy; a rival architect with mommy issues and a severe lack of ideas (or spine), a ice princess who can only enjoy sex if she's being raped, and a menacing newspaper columnist who appears to have his hand in everything. Those are the real reasons to read this book; the joy of watching the characters crash and spark each other makes the 694 pages a bit less of a chore.

I do say “a bit less” because Ayn Rand is pretty clear about the people she doesn't like, the ones who contribute nothing to society or clutter its great historic pages with folks songs and plays about normal people. Repeated rambling about second-handers and parasites occur ad nauseum, drilling the idea into the reader's brain but dulling the argument as the speeches go on (and on and on and on and on and on....), reaching the point where it seems the only way to make a real impact with The Fountainhead is to hit someone with the book.

I did get a funny feeling while reading a part of the book where a theater critic decides to praise a shit-tastic play. He reasons that he doesn't get anything out of promoting a play that is good, but selling a dung heap to hungry audiences is a demonstration of real power. My mind immediately went to the blocks of tv that I now avoid to prevent myself from screaming at the set in frustration. I thought of the last movie I saw in theaters; Coraline. A unique, entertaining film that did not have to be sold to me...then I thought of Faster, and how many ads I've seen for it on television and hogging billboard space in Chicago. Jersey Shore, Auto-Tuned anything, Twilight, and America's Next Top Model – I've ingested more than a few of these and never thought they were anything special. The very fact that these mediocre works were popular and being discussed with some modicum of respect made me wonder if there is a statue in America dedicated to “meh”.

(See? It's possible to get something of worth out of an Ayn Rand piece and not turn into a libertarian fuck-nutter)

It can be hard to separate the story that lives in The Fountainhead from the preaching that interrupts things. And yes, it may take a couple of tries to do it, but I swear that it's worth it.

on a loosely related note, I refused to put any references to The Incredibles in this review. I don't care how much Randian philosophy that movie contained, it bored me stiff and I would rather watch Cars to hear Paul Newman's voice.