The book claimed from the stacks yesterday is this little gem:
I mean, c’mon. How can one resist a title like that? I had no idea as to the content – meeting the daily book quota does not grant a lot of free time to stop and read the back or peruse the material, so decisions must be made quickly – but anything that says “Fuzzy Red Slippers” and has a stick figure drawing on the cover has got to catch my interest.
Turns out it’s a bunch of poems and essays with a semi-humorous bent on life, love and family. All very lovey-dovey, glass is half full, Dr. Phil “hug those feelings out” stuff. Not at all the sort of thing I normally read. But for you, dear readers, I shall preservere!
Updates on the previous finds: The Magdalene Gospel was a total bust. I’m all for feminine empowerment, and I love some delicious heresy, but when your introduction flat out says things like “These are the stories I think the women of the bible might have told,” and then you go on to having a bunch of ladies sitting around a dinner table telling stories about Jesus that have essentially zero Biblical, historical or mythological basis other than one or two names (one of the women is named Salome, which cracks me up. It’s never made clear if it’s supposed to actually be the one who wanted John the Baptist’s head on a plate – you know, Jesus’ cousin? – but it’s more entertaining to me to pretend it is) who basically claim that almost everything good about His ministry is their doing and that all those silly male apostles and disciples are a bunch of useless gits, well… I lose interest, quick. It’s not badly written or a poor read or anything. It’s just… silly and pointless. I’m guessing I am not the intended audience. (The fact that it’s called The Magdalene Gospel and has nothing at all to do with the actual supposed Gospel of Mary Magdalene was also annoying; false advertising, man!)
Blood Brother, the Scott Peterson tell-all by his long-lost sister, was just boring. There wasn’t anything in there that wasn’t already pretty common knowledge except a bunch of gossip about the Petersons, and even that wasn’t that interesting or exciting. I mentioned before an overabundance of stereotypical true crime-turned-National Enquirer material tropes, but that’s really the most exciting thing about the book. And an amusing afterword where the author notes that Amber Frey’s attourneys coached her to write it and helped get it published. Nope, not looking for a Golden Ticket at all, were we? Ahem.
The JonBenet Ramsey book is even worse; I’ve only managed about twenty pages. They picked a weird paper that’s unpleasant to touch and is an awful nicotine yellow color that makes my eyes bleed, then used a tiny font with weird serif signatures. That’s before you actually get to the text itself, which among other things, can’t pick a tense or perspective and shifts repeatedly between first and third (and keeps switching narrators without announcement when in first-person) and has already harped too long on the terrible sacrifices made in a mockery of justice for little JonBenet with plenty of thanks to some attourneys and media moguls who helped the book get written. Not that I really expected anything different from this particular bunch.
Started The Historian, and while it shows promise, I warn anyone about to dive in that it is very dry. Almost as dry and dusty and ponderous as some of the ancient tomes it purports to reference. Still interesting and fun to ponder, but if you don’t care for epistolary novels or Victorian-style couching of your dialogue, you should probably give it a pass. Basically, go read a few chapters of Dracula somewhere; if you can handle Mina’s prissy style of writing for extended periods, you’re probably safe here, but for those wanting something clear, to the point and possibly more luridly gruesome, look elsewhere.
That’s about it for today, folks. Have a happy and safe Memorial Day!
Oh, and have some pie. Because Castiel loves pie.