"We are always sixteen / I am a thousand Julys":

Summer broke on the backs of children... wait.  Right man, wrong book (and if you can snap up that dangling allusion, kiddos, I'll buy you a stiff drink). 

I realize the Throwdown is morphing more into a regular old blog as my distinguished opponent is increasingly absent, work has gotten busy enough to keep me from reading as much, and the fact that summer is here.
Summer. Is. Here.

Since it's actually gotten warm, I've sat up late among fireflies and stars drinking cold beers with multiple sets of good friends, gotten tasty food at the farmer's market, run through swarms of bugs on gorgeous trails next to the Ocoee, rekindled my love for Lux Lisbon, spent quality time with coworkers at the Universal Joint every dang week, fallen asleep on the back porch while the bright sun warmed my skin, stumbled post-workout through the doors of Jittery Joe's in search of a 7AM coffee fix, gone on an amazing bike ride through farmland and the 90-degree heat on the promise of pizza, imagined honeysuckle everywhere, found delight in the tartness of pineapples, driven with the windows down, driven with the music up.  Sung loudly.  Fallen asleep happy.

Before the leaves start to kamikaze down onto our heads, I want to crash a hostel near a beach (any beach, really), pretend like I know how to navigate a boat down a large body of water, swim in a lake, load the Jeep out with gear and friends and find a place to camp, put a few hundred rounds down range, laugh until I hurt. 

I am grateful and joyful.  Winter is coming, but summer is now.

"She radiated health and mischief."

In keeping with tradition, Dan Simmons gets his own entry.  He is allowed to stand alone, unchallenged, with a smug look upon his bearded face.  You go, Dan Simmons, you go girlfriend.

So it's taken me a few weeks, but when I was in Asheville last month for the Zombie Prom (Hey!  I finally got to go to prom!  I knew all those people were wrong about me all those years ago.  Except when they weren't.  Um.  Crap.), I made my obligatory trip to Malaprops (hereafter known as The Finest Bookshop in All the Land).  In those hallowed stacks, smelling the coffee beans, hearing the delightful banter, possibly touching the best books in an inappropriate fashion (you can't prove anything), I picked Summer of Night. 

Again, in keeping with tradition, when I brought it to the counter the bookseller not only was a Simmons fan but also wanted to talk about said fandom.  And she wasn't upselling me a damn thing. 


NOTE TO BOOKSTORES ACROSS THE LAND:  This is how you build loyalty.  I actively want to spend my hard-earned money at Malaprops.  I want to throw it at them and thank them for taking it from me.  I want to buy them a drink afterward.  I want to roll around on the floor like a happy Labrador.  I want to evangelize about Malaprops. 

I want to do these things not because they have 20,000 books on the shelves, or because they have the best discounts, or because they have a loyalty program.  I want to do these things because the people there obviously, deeply, love books and are willing to talk about it.  I believe that when I walk up to the counter, the person taking my money will have something useful and sincere to say about what I'm reading.  I believe that if I want help finding a good book to read, their booksellers will help me not because it's their job, but because they enjoy talking to people about how fun it is to read. 

But let's get back to Summer of Night. 

You know how much I loved The Terror.  Summer of Night isn't quite there, let's be honest.  I didn't expect it to be.  What Summer of Night does really well is evoke what it is like to be a kid brimming full of wonder, mystery, and fear as the classes are let out in June and the bikes are oiled and the pellet guns are loaded and you think you're going to explode with excitement and also sadness.  What it's like to be sweaty and tan and invincible underneath the noonday sun and then feel a terrible ache for the back door light when the shadows go sideways and you can't see the path clearly.  What it's like to have the entire world condensed into one awesome, heartbreaking moment of holding hands or kissing a girl for the first time. 

Plus, all the other stuff in the book is scary as hell and gave me nightmares.  I can see a Venn diagram in my head that connects Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys, Stand By Me, It, 'That Place', and Winter's Bone around the focal point of Summer of Night.  It works, it's good, and you should read it.

Summer of Night - Dan Simmons, 528p.

TOTAL PAGE COUNT:  16,131!

Only Revolutions of Ruin:

As far as the books go, all good stuff.  I knew that things would take a slow turn this summer as sun, the outdoors, work, and friends take precedence to sitting on my tail reading (And definitely not Mass Effect 3, not at all, nope, didn't spend any time at all on that bastard of a time-suck.), but I'll take the numbers I've got. 

Mostly, I'll take the impending trash-talking that I'm going to deliver to Kate, in person, tomorrow.  Lady can't hang. 

To be totally honest, I'm less interested in writing about reading this month than I have been.  (WARNING! WARNING! INTROSPECTION AHEAD!)  The move to Athens and the shift in job duties has been both hectic and deeply fulfilling - it is a blessing to be back among friends with whom I have history, who know the stories that get told over drinks late in the night, who smile at my flaws and laugh at my terrible jokes.  Life at work is full of energy and excitement from the new staff, and from me as I learn new things and take on new responsibilities.  It's been a while since I have felt both challenged on this level and able to deliver a high amount of energy and enthusiasm to side projects of my own; the shift reminds me of the reasons I love and believe in our program and seems to have fueled a growth spurt for my own development. 

Personally, my sudden life changes back at the beginning of the year have been judo-flung into embracing everything.  It works.  I keep wondering when the nasty grief and loss will hop out from behind a rock and kick me in the neck, but those feelings float somewhere between resignation and bewilderment.  That's fine.  Mostly I miss beautiful Boone - the wind and the bright blue skies, Stick Boy Bread, family dinners, the hardwood floors, St. Elizabeth's of the Hill Country and the wonderful people there, the guy at Gamestop who was nice, the evidence that everyone in Watauga County was deeply connected to the outdoors, the strange blend of 'good ole boy' and 'local/organic/green/yoga' folks.  It felt like home.

Alright then.  Enough of that.

On a side note - I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but I have officially decided that Summer 2012 is the Season of Really Good Music.  Not all of these albums have come out in the last few weeks, but they are new to me: Regina Spektor, Of Monsters and Men, Company of Thieves, Horse Feathers, Laura Marling, and Metric right around the corner.  It's raining awesomeness.

The Fifth Elephant, Terry Pratchett - 400p.
My Life With the Saints, Fr. James Martin - 432p.
Believing in Jesus, Leonard Foley - 324p.
By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept, Paulo Coehlo - 208p.

SIX MONTH TOTAL: 15,603 PAGES!

"A child could know the meaning of fall..."

So in lieu of the missing Kate's competition, I have done a couple of things: 

First, I have given up reading.
Second, I got a tattoo of the entire text of Howl on my backside.
Third, I have done other things.

(Only one of these is true.)

June 1st, and the subsequent 6-month watermark, are on deck this week.  That being said, I will wait to see Kate in person to confirm that I have duly SUNK HER BATTLESHIP before talking trash and posting my recent books (not many, to be honest) and half-year page count (pretty decent). 

On the other hand, I have used much of my normal reading time to watch all the YouTube videos.  All of them.  Here are some of my favorites, for you.

They made a statue out of us.
The pressure is rising.
You don't meet nice girls in coffee shops.
We are all our own devil.
I could say that I don't love the light and the dark.
Ringing joyful and triumphant.

That's all, folks.

An Open Letter to My Distinguished Opponent:

Dear Kate,

I cannot help but note that you have failed to update your book list or post your page count since... January.  This fact is distressing; although I know that you continue to read books in a geekly fashion, I am concerned that your commitment to the Geek Throwdown is waning.

I have been tempted to declare victory by default.  However, in my infinite magnaminity magnaminousness goodness, I will offer you a temporary reprieve. 

If you recall, we originally agreed that whichever Geek was behind at the quarter-year mark would be subject to an embarrassing penalty.  I am prepared to postpone your immanent (Get it?  GET IT?) social disgrace until the half-year mark. 

Be prepared.  It is coming.  And when it does, the shaming will be epic.

Hugs,

Rob

Going Postal:

I remembered recently that every morning before I went to high school senior year, I listened to American Music, Kiss Off, and Add it Up by the Violent Femmes.  For some reason, this seems like information key to explaining the following 12 years of adulthood. 

That's all for now.  So....

The Corrections, Jonathan Franzen:  Funnier than the first time I read it, but Franzen is still an ass.  Actually, I think I feel about Franzen in general the way I feel about watching all of The Simple Life, Season 2: I enjoyed the experience, laughed a lot, groaned a lot, and feel sleazy after.  Actually I guess that makes reading Franzen like many things that people do shamefully, in private.  Him as a person (read: utter contempt for all that is humane and compassionate) comes through so strongly that I sometimes began to feel nauseated.  Also: Long-Winded Bastard (see: Literary Parlor Tricks For Dummies).

Guards! Guards! and Small Gods, Terry Pratchett:  These books gave me tears.  Literal tears of mirth and delight.  Instead of a review, I'll refer you to St. Thomas Aquinas: "To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary.  To one without faith, no explanation is possible".

The Book of Daniel, E.L. Doctorow:  Dear Kate.  Normally when you push a book on me in such an aggressive fashion, I imagine it must be highly literary, studied extensively in the hallowed halls of the ivy league, cleverly written, and an astounding work of art.  I imagine I will not like it one bit.  When it comes to Doctorow, I am happy to be Very Wrong.  Very Wrong Indeed.

Iron Sunrise, Charles Stross:  Not as good as the first Eschaton-based novel.  Couldn't tell you why.

Coraline, Neil Gaiman:  Joyous.  Creepy.  Good. 

WEEK 17 TOTAL: 14,239 PAGES!

The Corrections:

Mistakes were made.

There, I said it.  Now I'm going to take accountability for the actual mistakes, detail the very important corrections that need to be made, and provide more information about what has actually happened - which officially gives me more integrity than this asshole.

1.  After some very careful accounting, my Actual Very Official Page Count is... 11,996 pages. 

2.  Application of sophisticated data magic algorithms has provided the following analysis which you shall find both stimulating and life-changing:  I have read 31 books over 13 weeks for an average of 2.38 books per week, 11,996 pages over the same period for an average of 922.76 pages per week and an average of 386.96 pages per book, and a 'category break down' of 31% Fiction, 9% Nonfiction, 16% Mystery, 9% Steampunk, 25% Science Fiction, 3% Fantasy, and 6% History.  Categorical terms are subjective. 

3.  If I continue at the current pace, by the end of 2012 I'll have read 47,984.5 pages - not quite the 50,000 I'm shooting for, but close enough to consider it a possibility.  In my defense, I've been distracted lately.

These are serious times.  Stay informed, stay alive.