Right now I’m reading Purity of Blood, the second in Arturo Perez-Reverte’s Captain Alatriste books. It’s a book of pure entertainment, which probably means it hits all my buttons more so than it actually is a universally entertaining novel. It’s the kind of book my father would love. He’s old school, a real paperback cowboy who loves direct, well plotted books. Adventure books. Westerns. Thrillers. Naval fiction. He’s big into mysteries, especially detective stories. He doesn’t read much speculative fiction, but has a crazy knowledge of authors and lots of hours beating feet in the used book store.

And, something just struck me about all those books — the books my father loves, and the ones I enjoy as refreshing breather among more complicated or literary works. So much of those old tropes are guy stuff. I’m talking about the private detectives, the heroic naval scoundrels, the spies, the pirates, the superheroes, the vikings, barbarians, thieves, space farers, and on and on. We’re attracted to them because they’re powerful. Westerns aren’t popular because they happen to be part of American history. The Shakers are part of American history, but they’re not getting their own genre shelf at the book store. Westerns are popular because the edge the line of violence and power in America (and beyond, sometimes).

We read these kinds of tough guy things because their romantic, powerful figures. They pull more interest because they’re easily plotted, active and victorious ideals. We go in knowing this is exciting stuff. These tropes become assumptions, short hand for escape and suspension of disbelief. We just know Vikings are rough around the edges and mock those silly, girly Christian men. We just know spies just get into sexual tension. It’s not just part of the job, it’s part of the genre. And, to a genre, these things are populated foremost by narratively compelling, powerful guys.

Then sometimes a funny thing happens. Someone comes along and subverts those assumptions. It’s a sexually powerful spy, but she’s a woman. The gunsligner is a wronged woman.

And, still other times something comes along and tempts that allure and power in a new way. I can’t really unpack the subgenre of Steampunk, but it’s a fascinating case where things once silly and genteel and colonial get a grunged out glint, a hint of sex, and a lot of power and excitement. By jove, a new bookshelf category arrives.

All of which isn’t me saying much insightful. I’m certainly not critiquing those genre twists and turns. It helps me recognize why I’m drawn to the spectacular Captain Alatriste and not at all to, oh, Miss Marple.

“People are crazy and times are strange
I’m locked in tight, I’m out of range
I used to care, but things have changed”

- Bob Dylan, Things Have Changed

I spent a good part of the afternoon meeting with my old boss, John. We still work together after I transferred to another department about 5 years ago. We still manage to have a rap session now and then, too. He and I share a lot of the same taste in music, which usually comes up as we connive to conquer the online media world in between lunches at the local Vietnamese restaurant. Unpack that irony, if you can.

John’s an old hippie. My favorite story, among many, from him is the time he was working in Colorado in his younger days. He heard some music from his outdoor job site, so he wandered over to a concert. They had to break through a fence to get in. On stage was Jimi Hendrix. Now that is far out, and I’ve got nothing that cool in my repertoire to impress young co-workers someday.

But, truth is, I’m not so young anymore, and John and I don’t often have time to chat on all things digital and aural. He’s well read — I don’t have anywhere near the patience he does — and he explained an article from the New York Magazine about how Internet services are packing us in a bubble by making choices for us. Pandora spits out variations streams of music to people as they tweak their stations. Google delivers search results based on our history or our Gmail contacts. Amazon recommends products. And on and on.

The machines are making choices for us, and it’s supposed to make things easier and more relevant. The trade-off is a shrinking, not expanding, avenue of information. It may make things easier, but is it more interesting? I think that’s a fair summation of John’s point.

It reminded me of something I’d been chewing on for a while. We don’t share music like we used to. It’s another of those trade-offs. My best pal and music comrade Hastie and I used to hang out just listening to albums and music. It wasn’t as deliberate as the vinyl days, which John waxed nostalgic about today. Now, people shuffle around, in more ways than one, with white cords growing out of their ears. Digital music shattered the experience of albums, which I’ve always lamented (but not enough to avoid an iPod and those white ear buds). Music is often a solitary experience, or background noise. It’s become more passive.

And, hey, it’s not all bad. Trade-offs, like I said. But, I’m with the old hippie in thinking it’s kind of a shame. Worse, I think it’s also true of other art we enjoy. A fragmented, uprooted modern life means a lot of solitary consumption and interpretation of things we enjoy.

So, isn’t crazy that when we actually get to know someone in our life well enough to find out they enjoy art we enjoy, that it’s a thrill? How bizarre that people would have to get excited that someone out in the wide universe actually knows and enjoys a musician or a show or a book? I mean, of course there are people out there doing that. It shouldn’t be much of a surprise, especially when it’s good stuff — great albums or books or films. Whatever.

The other day, I found out that Heather, the woman who sits across from my cube at work, loves Scrivener, which is some pretty specialized software for writers. Which means she does writing at home. I also later found out that her husband writes a beer blog and wants to taste every IPA in the world. It only took us, oh, eight or nine months to realize this wonderful stuff.

I don’t blame her one bit, to be clear. She and I have a lot of work to do, not enough resources to get it done, and families to love and enjoy after the bell rings. Ok, there’s not actually a bell. We mostly sit at our desks through lunch, eating alone, and still reeling every so slightly from the last round of “be happy we still have jobs.”

I wonder what books she reads at night? Does she ever wonder what other people read, too?

What a world.

Those brief years, even while young, did give me enough of a taste of newsrooms to appreciate Rachman’s fictional newsroom, inspired by his own reporting days. It’s proving a nostalgic read that way, although the characters are a entertaining, frustrating mess so far. Review to come!

It turns out that heroic youth on the cover was a character named Jon Snow. The “unknown” author was George R. R. Martin, and the book was the first copy I ever saw of A Game of Thrones.

I remember clearly finishing the book. I had probably read it for a couple weeks, but I finished the thing in mad dash until 5 a.m., at which point I exclaimed to my then girlfriend, now wife, that it was the best book I ever read.

Ok, I may have exaggerated at that point. I have read better books. Not many. I loved Martin’s characters, and cheered that for once I wasn’t totally put off by clichéd, regurgitated fantasy. I became an A Song of Ice and Fire evangelist to all my friends, and I still smugly remind them who introduced them to the now famous series.

Oh, there are much more devoted fans of the series than me, I have no doubt. But, I love the books deeply.

But, I confess, I’m bitter. When news arrived about A Feast for Crows, I learned it was a riven text, and that A Dance With Dragons was its delayed twin that contained all my favorite characters’ chapters. Those friends shared their slight disappointment after reading. And, life otherwise got busy.

So it was that this fan, discover of the Western Kingdoms, never read A Feast for Crows in some kind of self-inflicted protest. What a waste. I decided my next read would be a treat to myself. Bring on the disappointing saga! I can’t wait.

So, instead of my usual whining, how about some silver lining?

I’m genuinely astounded at how I, and presumably other readers, approach narratives. When I read a novel, I enter a narrative, however complex, of compelling characters and events. This all feels natural. I’m eager to turn pages and discover the ups and downs of it all.

But, in truth, it requires effort. Let me call it interpretive effort. I get invested into the tale. It doesn’t even mean I must “like” the characters; it holds true even when I find them fascinatingly abhorrent. The point remains; it takes effort to read and appreciate fiction, and certainly to consider its value and meaning as a story.

When I read short fiction in series, that seemingly natural feel fades away, and that interpretive effort becomes obvious. Each story takes that little bit of investment that adds up — for me, at least — to interpretive effort. This is true for me regardless of my fondness for the stories. Brave New Worlds is excellent overall, and yet I’m still plodding along, emotionally worn out, so to speak.

I should add that Brave New Worlds is a collection of dystopian fiction. It seethes with bleak themes and ugly, depressing resolutions. It takes more emotional verve than usual to kick off  reading a second story after just finishing one in which, say, work camp revolutionaries are literally obliterated.

That said, I think the point stands. Again, it’s not complaining. I find it a fascinating thing for both readers and writers.

The Kindle edition notes that the digital rights to three classic stories by famous authors (Kurt Vonnegut, Philip K. Dick and J.G. Ballard) aren’t included. Disappointing, but understandable. And, along with many other American high schoolers, I’ve already read Vonnegut’s Harrison Bergeron.

So far, it’s quite enjoyable. I’m about a third through the book, and the stand out in the book so far is The Funeral by Kate Wilhelm. It’s a superb story, a dark and severe tale of a girl reared in an ultra-severe caste school. Wilhelm’s murky ending teases out a string of implications about the generations of teacher tyrants in a bleak future.

I spent way too much time looking over ebooks to buy. I’m picky about books that way. With a recommendation from my sister-in-law and brother-in-law, I finally settled on Sandman Slim by Richard Kadrey. So far, it’s one hell of a ride … literally. The narrator finds himself returned from an 11 “vacation” in hell. Now, he’s back to as Hell’s hitman.

Great stuff, not for the faint of heart. It’s a hard boiled take on modern fantasy. It’s right up my alley. Like I always say, I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t swear. No shit!

Review to come!

Happy holidays all. Looking forward to time off from work and getting some reading done. And drinking.

This guy was older than me, like most of my co-workers at the time. He was thin, and had a kempt beard as long as I knew him. He had a bleak sense of humor, and as I got to know him over the couple of years I appreciated it more and more. He and his counterpart co-worker used to leave this mannequin in various hilarious poses. It was funny to find Al, as they called the dummy, sitting in chairs, wearing ties, bivouacking in a file cabinet. But, mostly, that damn mannequin made me jump out of my skin when I caught him out of the corner of my eye where nobody was supposed to be.

Anyway, this co-worker of mine was quite the reader. And, it took even longer for me to catch on he was quite the writer, too. Turns out he was a playwright and screenwriter, and a local director filmed his movie. I still haven’t seen his movie. I really want to.

They laid him off one day about two years ago. He had great taste in books, and he and my old boss used to exchange notes. They let me in on the gag once in a while. I had to go look up his name, because I forgot it. It was two years ago, and I forgot. It’s funny how long something feels when you get wrapped up in a place like work.

I picked up Blood Meridien right before he was laid off. When I did, a newer novel of McCarthy’s caught my eye. It was No Country For Old Men. That was in my Western buying phase. I bought several novels I thought would help inspire me for Dust Devils, a Western role-playing game I created. So, I made a note that it looked like a good candidate for later on.

Fast forward many months. Last year, I was strolling through my favorite used book store, and I found a nice trade paperback edition of No Country For Old Men. It was a little worn, but it sure was cheap. I’d heard a movie was coming out, and I wanted the edition before all the copies were blasted with movie marketing and actors for the cover. It’s a small vanity, I know.

I read it. I strayed from my reading list, but I wanted to have it in my brain before the movie tainted anything. More vanity.

I was taken with with that book — the kind of adoration you feel when something hurts you, moves you out of comfort to confront some hard ideas. It stuck to my ribs. I couldn’t get it out of my head, because I was very troubled by the fate of Llewellyn Moss, and even more troubled by Ed Tom Bell, the sheriff whose story it really is.

I knew I wanted to see it in the theater when the movie came out. So, two weeks ago, on a cold and blustery friday, I found myself alone from my wife and kids. She took them to her sister’s for supper and movies with the girls. After work, I shuttled around in the winter weather for a quick bite of tacos, then off to the theater to stand in a long line that nearly made me walk away for fear of missing any part of the movie.

I watched it alone, seated in the second row to the right. It was marvelous. As close a match as any novel-to-film translation I’ve seen.

When it was over, there was silence. Dead silence. The end scene took the air out of the room. I don’t know all the baby boomer couples there with me were as shocked I felt them to be. But, it seemed to me they sat theredumbstruck, as though they’d been tricked into watching a “good movie” and gotten suckerpunched instead. For me, having read the book, it was no shock. Just another kick in the soul. That’s how I described it to my wife.

I can’t really describe it here. It disturbs me greatly. Oh, yes, the book and the movie are disturbing. There’s terrible, heartless violence, and the tale doesn’t end well. But, that’s not quite what I’m getting at. Not quite. What disturbs me is that I have no quibble with it. I have nothing to add. I just have to shrug and nod and think, yep, that’s how things are.

I would be a damn fool to think no one else is affected as much as me. That’s more vanity, and really awful vanity at that. But, still, No Country For Old Men resonates with me. It hits close to home. I can say I admire the film and the novel, and I say that because I find it both to be powerfully true as art. I believe they hit close to home to me especially (among others, no doubt). But, in very brief and few discussions with others, they seem less affected, less troubled and more wowed by a great movie they’re enthusiastic about. Maybe I just need to talk with others more.

I do not think I’ll be able to see the movie again soon. I feel as though it spoke directly to someone like me, someone with my particular impression of the world. It’s not because my life is teetering on the edge of violence like that in the novel and film. But, it hits me harder and closer than any other art I’ve experienced.

And, I hate that idea, that I’m just one of those suckers who sees some movie and tells all his friend it changed his life. That’s so useless to me. It didn’t change me. I didn’t walk out the door and think, you know what, I really out to go climb a mountain before I die. What horseshit that’d be.

I just drove home with the radio off. Felt like thunder in my chest for a little while there. Going alone was probably both the wisest and the stupidest thing I could have done.

At midnight, When my wife brought the kids home — one asleep on her shoulder and bundled up, the other staggering half-awake — she said “What’s wrong?” She knew I really wanted to see it. “Didn’t you like it?”

I couldn’t form an answer. I don’t like it. It’s not something I can talk about like I can with other movies. I don’t love it. It haunts me. I told her I didn’t want her to see it, ever. I said it was because I think I’m afraid of what she’ll think, and that it might ruin some secret hope I have that maybe I’m wrong about it all. Like seeing it might take away her innocence or something.

If you’ve seen the movie, and think anything like I do about it, you’ll know it’s a false hope.

She looked at me like I was crazy, but then she shrugged. “Well, I don’t want to see it now!”

And, I think I’m fine with that.