Doubt I'll finish anything else this year. Did read some good work this year, but the quantity decreases with life and the distractions of the world. If I finished the book, which is good, it's on this list. It gets three stars if I really liked it, four if exceptional.
1) Hanif Abdurraqib. Three Crosses. 39 p.
2) Catherine Walters. When Will it Be Spring? 32 p.
3) Rosie Schaap - Drinking with Men. 272 p. ***
4) Jack Gilbert - The Great Fires. 90 p. ***
5) Teddy Wayne - The Love Song of Johnny Valentine. 284 p. ***
6) Sharon Olds. Stag's Leap. 89 p. **** (best poetry)
7) Denise Mina - Gods and Beasts. 307 p. ***
8) Natasha Trethewey - Domestic Work. 58 p. ***
9) Ian Rankin - The Hanging Garden. 335 pp. ****
10) Steph Killen - Buddha Breaking Up. 217 p.
11) Michaele Weissman - God in a Cup. 268 p.
12) Adam Makos with Larry Alexander - A Higher Call. 392 p. ***
13) Khaled Hosseini - And the Mountains Echoed. 402 p. **** (best fiction)
14) Iain Banks - The Wasp Factory. 184 p. ****
15) Rachel Kushner - The Flame Throwers. 383 p.
16) Scott Woods - We Over Here Now. 94 p. ***
17) Stephan Talty - Black Irish. 320 p. ***
18) Amy Stewart. The Drunken Botanist: The Plants that Create the World's Great Drinks. 380 p. ***
19) Ahmir "Questlove" Thompson and Ben Greenman - Mo' Meta Blues. 282 p. ***
20) Denise Duhamel - Blowout. 89 p. ***
21) Jay Stringer - Runaway Town. 226 p. ***
22) Kofi Awoonor - The House by the Sea. 77 p.
23) Cristin O'Keefe-Aptowicz - The Year of No Mistakes. 111 p. ****
24) Mike Veseth - Wine Wars. 255 p.
25) Tony Hoagland - Sweet Ruin. 92 p. ***
26) Stephen King - Doctor Sleep. 531 p. ***
27) Gary Pomerantz - Their Life's Work. 465 p. ****
28) Mark Lewishon. Tune In: The Beatles: All These Years Vol. 1 . 934 p. ****
29) Ray Davies. Americana. 311 p.
Showing posts with label books 2013. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books 2013. Show all posts
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Sunday, November 24, 2013
If you can read this, you are being tagged
Working on various projects, including the Arts Festival, is taking up some creative time. Wish I was not so distracted and unfocused. A piece of paper flew off the table earlier, written on it are the names of two schools to research. My son will most likely be attending one of them next year. He'll be in sixth grade and in middle school.
Time flies.
I do not read comic books. The published works of DC Comics and Marvel and their filmed editions have no real meaning in my life other than small entertainment.
I have never watched an episode of the Wire and still, somehow, have managed to hold down a full time job.
I avoid doing anything in binge format, although I've watched a few episodes of The Kids in the Hall in a row since finding it on Netflix.
There is not enough Life to watch or click on everything that I'm told is important, or life changing or worth my time.
My own things are going. I do not telegraph everything I do months in advance. I got stuff going on even while I'm looking through who died this month on Wikipedia. You do not want me to post about how my physical health has been the past 48 hours. My TMI has filters that respect the audience. Even if I knew no one would read it, I would not post any details.
I'm in the last few months of 1962 in this fantastic book on The Beatles. I was mistaken in thinking the Bob Spitz book would be the end of a close to definitive biography of the band, but Mark Lewishon's research and scholarship is amazing. I hope to write more about this volume when I finish it.
I like Peter Capaldi as an actor and welcome his interpretation of Doctor Who. Is that a high crime?
I'm disappointed in the new Arcade Fire record, is this reason for me to get spammed?
As I write this, The American Music Awards are on. I have no idea who these people are that my friends are tweeting about. Nor am I particularly concerned enough to change the channel to find out. Life goes forward. No need to hack.
I do not take my pop culture personally when it goes against me, but find something else to take up my time. Maybe even do something that is important and life changing, but I usually watch a soccer documentary about a great player from Hungary on youtube through my television instead. A friend tweeted a link about the Hungarian soccer team in the fifties and I was intrigued, so I found the documentary on youtube. It did not change my life, but it was worth my time.
I hold grudges. Tom Glavine for giving up seven runs in 1 1/3 innings in a game the Mets needed to win. Kevin Dyson for catching that ball. I will go to my death knowing it was a forward lateral. At least one ex-wife hates me enough to block me on Facebook. I did not like Lou Reed after seeing him live.
You do not want to see me with facial hair. I tried it years ago. It looked like crap. I am not making myself look like crap for a month of manufactured awareness of a horrible disease.
And do not be that guy by correcting me about the Glavine stat if I'm wrong. I have not looked it up. I'm just a guy on my couch, watching New England get their ass beat on Sunday night football. It's in the second quarter, the game can change. The game can always change. I'm a Bills fan, I know this. I'm a Mets fan, I know this. I support Everton, I am used to mediocrity. I would never tell anyone that the Bills/Blue Jackets/Everton/Mets/Celtic are important, life changing or worth your time.
It's become much, much easier to scroll past than comment.
Buster Keaton though, you should consider.
Anyway, Arcade Fire's next record might be good, so can Mumford and Sons'.
What happened to the hope in all the vitriol?
I am imperfect though, taking in some schadenfreude while the Patriots are losing badly, at home.
Time flies.
I do not read comic books. The published works of DC Comics and Marvel and their filmed editions have no real meaning in my life other than small entertainment.
I have never watched an episode of the Wire and still, somehow, have managed to hold down a full time job.
I avoid doing anything in binge format, although I've watched a few episodes of The Kids in the Hall in a row since finding it on Netflix.
There is not enough Life to watch or click on everything that I'm told is important, or life changing or worth my time.
My own things are going. I do not telegraph everything I do months in advance. I got stuff going on even while I'm looking through who died this month on Wikipedia. You do not want me to post about how my physical health has been the past 48 hours. My TMI has filters that respect the audience. Even if I knew no one would read it, I would not post any details.
I'm in the last few months of 1962 in this fantastic book on The Beatles. I was mistaken in thinking the Bob Spitz book would be the end of a close to definitive biography of the band, but Mark Lewishon's research and scholarship is amazing. I hope to write more about this volume when I finish it.
I like Peter Capaldi as an actor and welcome his interpretation of Doctor Who. Is that a high crime?
I'm disappointed in the new Arcade Fire record, is this reason for me to get spammed?
As I write this, The American Music Awards are on. I have no idea who these people are that my friends are tweeting about. Nor am I particularly concerned enough to change the channel to find out. Life goes forward. No need to hack.
I do not take my pop culture personally when it goes against me, but find something else to take up my time. Maybe even do something that is important and life changing, but I usually watch a soccer documentary about a great player from Hungary on youtube through my television instead. A friend tweeted a link about the Hungarian soccer team in the fifties and I was intrigued, so I found the documentary on youtube. It did not change my life, but it was worth my time.
I hold grudges. Tom Glavine for giving up seven runs in 1 1/3 innings in a game the Mets needed to win. Kevin Dyson for catching that ball. I will go to my death knowing it was a forward lateral. At least one ex-wife hates me enough to block me on Facebook. I did not like Lou Reed after seeing him live.
You do not want to see me with facial hair. I tried it years ago. It looked like crap. I am not making myself look like crap for a month of manufactured awareness of a horrible disease.
And do not be that guy by correcting me about the Glavine stat if I'm wrong. I have not looked it up. I'm just a guy on my couch, watching New England get their ass beat on Sunday night football. It's in the second quarter, the game can change. The game can always change. I'm a Bills fan, I know this. I'm a Mets fan, I know this. I support Everton, I am used to mediocrity. I would never tell anyone that the Bills/Blue Jackets/Everton/Mets/Celtic are important, life changing or worth your time.
It's become much, much easier to scroll past than comment.
Buster Keaton though, you should consider.
Anyway, Arcade Fire's next record might be good, so can Mumford and Sons'.
What happened to the hope in all the vitriol?
I am imperfect though, taking in some schadenfreude while the Patriots are losing badly, at home.
Monday, November 11, 2013
The Boys of Winter
I was a bit young to remember the New York Jets Super Bowl win in early 1969. Joe Namath was always some player who was hurt all the time.
When I was eight, I saw this play live on television.
It was one of those moments you get hooked on a game, reeled into something by a miracle play. It was hard back then to follow a team from afar back in the era when there was only football on Sunday afternoons and Monday nights. There was no ESPN, no football networks. You watched what you could and read anything you could find from the newspapers.
The 1970's Pittsburgh Steelers were a team and franchise that I have great respect for. I do not know if there has been any team in my lifetime that equally embraced its fans while in their embrace. Maybe the Brooklyn Dodgers, perhaps the great teams of the Montreal Canadiens has such a profound effect on the city in which they played. The Green Bay Packers are a entity onto their own.
In his book, Their Life's Work, Gary Pomerantz documents the rise of the Steeler Dynasty though the lives of the players, and reports the impact it had on their lives today.
There's a lot of craziness to the game, and Pomerantz gives us a lengthy glimpse at the men who played hurt and risked their lives for the game they loved - and a couple of the endings are painful to read, even when you know the outcome and history. The book was published just before the death of L.C. Greenwood, leaving Joe Greene the last survivor of the famed Steel Curtain defensive line.
It's also about a family, The Rooneys, who have owned the team from its inception in the 1930's and went though some incredibly bad years on the field until it changed some of its scouting procedures and drafted some incredible players.
In 1974 the team drafted Lynn Swann, Jack Lambert, John Stallworth and Mike Webster. All four of these players are in the Hall of Fame. In 1964, the Cowboys had a draft in which three players made the hall. No other teams have come close.
Pomerantz has interviews with the great players, such as Pittsburgh icon Franco Harris the backups, like Steve Furness and the character of Frenchy Fuqua - who still will not exactly say what really happened during the Immaculate Reception. He wanted to tell Dan Rooney after it happened, but he told Fuqua to keep it to himself.
There were a couple of things I wanted Pomerantz to get into more: Gerela's Gorillas and more about Broadcaster Myron Cope and The Terrible Towel. Overall, this is a book that will does for football non-fiction what Roger Kahn's masterpiece The Boys of Summer did for the Brooklyn Dodgers. It's a must read for anyone with a casual interest in the history of the game during a time when the players were not isolated from their fan base. I think the ball hit Tatum first.
When I was eight, I saw this play live on television.
It was one of those moments you get hooked on a game, reeled into something by a miracle play. It was hard back then to follow a team from afar back in the era when there was only football on Sunday afternoons and Monday nights. There was no ESPN, no football networks. You watched what you could and read anything you could find from the newspapers.
The 1970's Pittsburgh Steelers were a team and franchise that I have great respect for. I do not know if there has been any team in my lifetime that equally embraced its fans while in their embrace. Maybe the Brooklyn Dodgers, perhaps the great teams of the Montreal Canadiens has such a profound effect on the city in which they played. The Green Bay Packers are a entity onto their own.
In his book, Their Life's Work, Gary Pomerantz documents the rise of the Steeler Dynasty though the lives of the players, and reports the impact it had on their lives today.
There's a lot of craziness to the game, and Pomerantz gives us a lengthy glimpse at the men who played hurt and risked their lives for the game they loved - and a couple of the endings are painful to read, even when you know the outcome and history. The book was published just before the death of L.C. Greenwood, leaving Joe Greene the last survivor of the famed Steel Curtain defensive line.
It's also about a family, The Rooneys, who have owned the team from its inception in the 1930's and went though some incredibly bad years on the field until it changed some of its scouting procedures and drafted some incredible players.
In 1974 the team drafted Lynn Swann, Jack Lambert, John Stallworth and Mike Webster. All four of these players are in the Hall of Fame. In 1964, the Cowboys had a draft in which three players made the hall. No other teams have come close.
Pomerantz has interviews with the great players, such as Pittsburgh icon Franco Harris the backups, like Steve Furness and the character of Frenchy Fuqua - who still will not exactly say what really happened during the Immaculate Reception. He wanted to tell Dan Rooney after it happened, but he told Fuqua to keep it to himself.
There were a couple of things I wanted Pomerantz to get into more: Gerela's Gorillas and more about Broadcaster Myron Cope and The Terrible Towel. Overall, this is a book that will does for football non-fiction what Roger Kahn's masterpiece The Boys of Summer did for the Brooklyn Dodgers. It's a must read for anyone with a casual interest in the history of the game during a time when the players were not isolated from their fan base. I think the ball hit Tatum first.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Neil's Page Turner
Stillness is difficult in my son. From the moment he wakes up, he is constantly in motion. It has always been hard, and rare, to be able to sit and read to him. He would always turn the pages out of my hands. When he does have a book, the pages turn quickly, as if he was thumbing through a magazine. I'm fairly certain he can read, but determining the level is difficult.
This afternoon my wife and I were lying on our bed, he was in his room and I asked him to come see us. He climbed on and played with my eyebrows for awhile, which has been one of his recent passions. He says "eyebrows" long and sinister.
After a while he went back to his room and starting repeating the same nonsensical sentence over and over. I asked him to stop, to come see me and bring a book.
He brought this book with him. I opened it up and started to read. To my surprise he let me, leaning into me as I continued.
When I finished he said, "The end," took the book from me, closed it, handed the book back to me. I asked him what he wanted, he said, "Bears." "What about the bears?" I asked. "Book," was his reply.
Read the book five more times to him, trying to prompt him to say what he wanted. Got him to say "read" and "to me." It's very hard to draw meaningful words out of him, but for a few minutes on a Saturday afternoon something clicked between us a little.
This afternoon my wife and I were lying on our bed, he was in his room and I asked him to come see us. He climbed on and played with my eyebrows for awhile, which has been one of his recent passions. He says "eyebrows" long and sinister.
After a while he went back to his room and starting repeating the same nonsensical sentence over and over. I asked him to stop, to come see me and bring a book.
He brought this book with him. I opened it up and started to read. To my surprise he let me, leaning into me as I continued.
When I finished he said, "The end," took the book from me, closed it, handed the book back to me. I asked him what he wanted, he said, "Bears." "What about the bears?" I asked. "Book," was his reply.
Read the book five more times to him, trying to prompt him to say what he wanted. Got him to say "read" and "to me." It's very hard to draw meaningful words out of him, but for a few minutes on a Saturday afternoon something clicked between us a little.
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