Angela's Ashes

"Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood." And that right there pretty much sucked me in to the autobiography by Frank McCourt. See, my dad was born in 1935 in Boston, MA to a very Irish Catholic family. A lot of what I read in this book, even though it mostly took place in Ireland, it resonated with stories my dad had told me. In fact, after finishing this book, I insisted my father read it.

Frank McCourt pretty much recounts his childhood growing up in poverty. First in Brooklyn, but unable to find work, his father decides they should all go back to Limerick, Ireland. Except Frank’s father was a drunk who couldn’t hold a job. And when he did, he used any pay to go get a few pints instead of buy food for the family. Though this poverty didn’t stop him from repeatedly knocking up Angela, his wife.

Angela was on the dole (welfare) and even that was measly and didn’t cover much. And her “extra” money went to buying cigarettes.

McCourt recounts his life with supreme openness, to the point of peeping in on a friend’s sister while she changed clothes and him and his pals masturbating to the view.

The McCourt family, which consisted of Frank, his 4 brothers, and 1 sister had to move from place to place due to inability to pay the rent, and ended up living in a place that flooded every winter so they had to live on the 2nd floor, and it also happened to be at the end of the street where everyone else dumped their sewage.

The priests who taught at the public school were appalled by the state of Frank and his lack of shoes and would constantly focus on sin rather than the three R’s.

The whole thing was dismal, including the deaths of his sister and two brothers due to lack of healthcare and being underfed with weak immune systems.

There are some very depressing scenes in this novel, including one where Frank’s father is in the pub resting his pint on the tiny coffin of his dead son.

Angela tries to keep the family going by getting help from relatives, even prostituting herself to a neighbor man in the hopes of getting food or money.

McCourt really did just lay it all out there; the good and the very bad.

Throughout all this though is humor. I laughed aloud a few times, even during all the overwhelming tragedy.

Eventually the father leaves and goes to England to find a job, while the family remains behind in Ireland. Everyone is so proud of him, but once again he let everyone down and drank any paycheck away. So the remaining children, Frank and his brothers, take to stealing food or finding coal in the streets to sell. During one of these forays the boys see their mother standing in line at the St. Vincent DePaul society and apparently that’s even worse than being on the dole. It’s about as low as anyone can go, begging for food or shoes and being seen doing it means you’re about to be the gossip subject of the neighborhood.

McCourt recounts his childhood and adolescence with humor and such detail to make you feel as if you were experiencing it all right along with him. The man has a gift for storytelling. Something he inherited from his father.

Frank continues his story into his late teens, to when he decides to return the states and join the military. I actually didn’t want the book to end. So I got the sequel, ‘Tis. Which ended up being a great disappointment.

But along the way, Angela’s Ashes, is filled with torment and hilarity. Odd combo, I know.

Apparently it’s being assigned in schools for history, but I read this because I wanted to. I give this one the green light to read as well.

There are bits of monotony and the some of the reminiscing can be repetitive, and much of the time I just shook my head in amazement that any of this could occur and live through it. It’s amazing what humans will adapt to when necessary.

There’s an interesting bit about a girl he has a thing for and he wants to have sex with, but of course that’s a sin, but maybe he can get her to do it anyway. When they do the deed he soon finds out she’s dying, and that brings up a bunch of Catholic guilt about sex causing death and should he confess? And it’s little stories like that had me giggling in their absurdity.

There is some retelling that I’m a bit suspicious of. I don’t know anyone who can recollect with such perfect clarity, events that occurred when they were 3 or 5. Maybe Frank McCourt has an above average memory or he had some help from old neighbors or even family.

The ending of this novel was quite abrupt in my estimation. On boat to the states, meets girls, go to bar, then gets laid. Woot! All very slam bam the end. Wait, what? Is that it? Though that might how one gets sucked into a sequel.

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A Confederacy of Dunces

I'll be honest. When I first read this book I thought it was some crazy piece of shit. Insane. As in, what the hell was this guy smoking? So after reading it, I read it again. And it wasn't quite as shitty as previously thought. Still strange as hell though.

This is one of those books that people will whip out to appear intellectual and well-read. It did win a Pulitzer you know. And the author? He offed himself when he was 32. His mother actually had the novel published posthumously, in 1980. Unfortunately for me, I read this book long after it was published and years before it became all the rage to brag about reading. But I've now read it three times and it gets better with each consumption. Much like shots of cheap whiskey.

This novel by John Kennedy Toole is set in New Orleans in the early 1960's and the story revolves around a 30-year old stinky fat guy named Ignatius J. Reilly. He lives with his widowed mother and spends a lot of time sweating on his horribly foul sheets and masturbating, between bouts of writing on Big Chief tablets. He has no job and his mother takes him everywhere and it appears he exists to insult and turn his nose up at, well, most everything. He can't stand pop culture, sex, people, pretty much everything since he's really quite above it all and far more advanced as a human.

He is also a glutton and immensely slothful. He's just, well, gross.

Due to his mom crashing the family car and needing repairs, Ignatius is forced to find a job. He tries to sell hotdogs but he eats them all 'cause he's just too hungry all the time. He then falls into a job at the Levy Pants company where he works in a back office and mostly hides paperwork in file cabinets.

It's almost difficult to describe this book because there are so many eccentric characters it just kept me thinking "what in the holy fucking hell is going on here??" chapter after chapter.

First, there's Myrna Minkoff who Ignatius met in college and is the polar opposite of him. They continue having a pen pal relationship where they both analyze and degrade each other and Myrna speculates continually about his sexual orientation.

Then there's Miss Trixie, a clerk in the Levy Pants office who is senile and only wants to retire, but the owner's wife, Mrs. Levy, keeps her working, thinking she is doing the old crazy lady a favor by taking her under her wing as project. Even going so far as to give the woman a makeover. Mr. Levy would just like it if his wife would shut up.

Next up is the cop who keeps hassling Ignatius, Officer Mancuso who is completely inept, and his aunt, Santa Battaglia, who is Mrs. Reilly's new best friend, and hates Ignatius. It's Santa who helps Mrs. Reilly get a little more independent and to start standing up to Ignatius and his demands. It's Santa that gets Mrs. Reilly dating after 21-years of widowhood and that introduces the next character: Claude Robichaux. He's an old guy with a big dash of paranoia who is always looking for Communists around every corner.

Then there's the strip club occupants. Darlene, with a pet bird that she is trying to incorporate into her act to get herself famous, and Lana Lee the manager of the strip club. She just happens to also be running an illegal porn exchange on the side where she packages up photos and postcards and gives them to George, a high school aged kid, for delivery. Except of course he is compelled to peek in the packages and knows exactly what Lana is doing and demands a raise.

For pretty much all of the novel, Ignatius spends his time outraged and indignant and one really must wonder what the guy has in his head that makes him so superior to others.

This satirical novels encompasses corruption in the police force and the mindset of white trash nouveau riche. It even attempts a worker's revolt as Ignatius decides that being a clerk or hot dog vender are just undignified and everyone should rise up and protest. This is also an action that is staged to one-up Myrna Minkoff who continues to write from New York City with larger and larger leftist challenges for Ignatius to meet.

Ignatius is seriously one of the most disgusting characters I've ever had the pleasure of climbing into the skin of. Full of flatulence and hypochondriacal illnesses and a total disregard for anyone but himself.

This book was just ucky. I don't know what to say. I liked it. The 2nd time around. And subsequent readings. But the first time? Well, the first time I decided there must be something I'm missing and I'm clearly not the sort to be snooty about my novel consumption if this is the sort of thing that impresses the haughty class of those disdainful of the bourgeois.

This is a comedy and it was funny. The other plus is that you will sound smart at parties where you can drop the names like Ignatius P. Reilly or Myrna Minkoff because instantly people will know you read books. And Pulitzer Prize winners at that. That makes you SPECIAL. And not in that short bus sort of way. Really. It will be as impressive as knowing what nose your glass of pinot emits or which composer tackled that air on a g string.

Just read it, you won't be disappointed—but understand it might take a couple readings to appreciate it. Remember, it's like cheap booze. Wait, that isn't fair. It's more like cracking open a bottle of fine whiskey before it's had time to properly age. Do it too soon and well, that's just nasty and it will make you sick. But savor it, roll it over your tongue, inhale the vapor and let it intoxicate you and you will learn to appreciate the finer aspects of perfection.

That's the novel.

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A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

I was wandering back and forth down aisles of books hoping a title would catch my eye. I don't know that there has ever been another title as ambitious and arrogant as A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. So I had to grab it.

This was the first novel by author Dave Eggers who, at the time, was dabbling with launching a magazine in San Francisco and navigating the internet craze.

This is an autobiography. But there's more to it. It's charming and self-deprecating, and I thoroughly enjoyed reading every word—and by every word I mean every single word. See, I'm that person who actually looks on that one page with all the publishing info and Library of Congress filing position. To my surprise I found a not only a Kinsey scale pinpointing how straight/gay Eggers is but also other little informational tidbits.

How I wish that I had purchased this book the day it came out, in its first printing. Why? Well I'll tell you. The guy actually used real names of his friends and family which isn't so odd really, but he also included their phone numbers! So people who wanted to say hi or ask a question, they could just make a quick call. Subsequent printings had the information removed, with editorial notes explaining the inclusion and exclusion of the numbers. Strangely enough, only one person ever got a phone call.

Another different aspect about this novel was the offer a disk with the entire text of the book available for editing. Don't like the dialogue? Go ahead and change it. Just mail in your request.

Also found inside are goofball drawings that Dave and his brother, Christopher, draw at various times, and there is also a drawing of a whale sighting as Dave was kayaking in San Francisco Bay.

What else? There is also a section explaining why this or that chapter was written or what parts you can probably skip if you're in a hurry and why the dialogue was a bit more sophisticated than what they really sound like. As in, who wants to read a book where everyone just says, "Dude? Dude!" and sound like idiots.

So what's this book about? I suppose I should get to that. It's a journey with no end. It begins with the recollection of the home he grew up in, with his mother laying on the couch, coughing up green smelly phlegm into a plastic receptacle. His mom had cancer and spent her last days watching TV and being, well, kind of gross. He doesn’t pull his punches when it comes to describing how he felt watching his mother die and what cancer does to a person.

Within weeks of his mother's death, his father collapses in the driveway and also dies. Of cancer.

After the funerals, Dave, a 21-year old college student, packs up himself and his 7-year old brother Christopher and moves out of Chicago with their sister Beth and into San Francisco and responsibility.

Dave Eggers writes really well and he is all over the place. What I mean is, the guy can go from talking about being a "parent" to thinking of being an orphan and four other thoughts that follow, and Eggers doesn't leave any of it out. Every thought—every bit of rage or joy or disgust.

Page after page of hanging out with friends, trying to find a job or an apartment, youthful zeal and rebellion while trying to be the "dad" for Toph (Christopher's nickname).

I don't want to sound dismissive or give the appearance that this is all about some self-obsessed guy who has too much time in his own head, even though that's true, but it's just more. The guy can write. In turn this read is sad and hilarious and very dark.

How does a person laugh at cancer? Or laugh at a friend who took a header off a balcony and ends up brain damaged? Or write that your own brother stinks like pee and you're worried that he's gonna be that kid in school who wreaks? Who decides that sending out a press release that Adam Rich, star of the old show Eight is Enough, is dead? Well, that would be Dave Eggers, the fella who thought that writing his life's story at age 29 was a good idea. Turns out he was dead on.

There is a heavy dose of cynicism and wit to be found from a guy whose main goal of going to the Parent Teacher night at Toph's school is to find a single mother to bang. On the other hand, Eggers is so heavily self-aware that he gets how pretentious he might sound and happily shares where in the novel to focus for the most enjoyment while also letting us know how he spent the advance money from the publisher.

The guy draws a floor plan of his apartment to include—along with a stapler. A stapler? Yeah, why not.

I can see where some people might be confused by the uniqueness of this book and I'm thinking that people over the age of 40 probably won't really understand where this pop culture riddled media/internet freak might be coming from.

I loved this book, I was delighted with the depth of darkness. You know what else? I came away thinking that Dave Eggers is probably an asshole and not someone I'd want to hang with. But I'd not blink before handing over more money to buy another bit of his work; I just wouldn't lay out any cash to buy him a beer.

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