It's tough having ovaries

It's sobering every time I think about gender equality. Yes, we've made huge strides in closing the pay gap, in abolishing discrimination in the workplace based on gender, and in creating safe spaces for women and LGBTQIA folk. But let's face it—these steps aren't enough. In some cultures, it's still a grave sin to be born a woman.

I'm reading this wonderful Korean novel by Cho Nam-yu titled Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982, and it made me realize that the battle for gender equality is far from over. Like our main character, Jiyoung, for example. She's had a tough childhood because she was born a woman in a family that has always wanted a son. Even after graduating from college, she finds it difficult to get a job interview because, yes, she's a woman. Almost everything doesn't work out for her, often making huge compromises just because of her sex. It's quite painful to read at times, especially because every circumstance is still happening in Korea.

The novel has so many footnotes pertaining to actual statistics and studies on gender equality in Korea. But they don't interfere with the narrative. In fact, they seem to strengthen the novel's main thesis. It's still a society where women need to be dolled up all the time and where men still don't give much value to them. If they feel that they're sexually harassed at the office, Korean women just have to grin and bear it. Why oh why, Korea?

Speaking of Korea, the bf and I have been thinking of going there. Next year perhaps? When the virus blows over. Besides, I don't think overseas travel is a possibility anytime soon. And lately, we've been watching Korean dramas on Netflix. Them Koreans do know how to spin a yarn. (I highly recommend "Reply 1988"!) Now if only they'd treat their women better.

We've also been cooking Korean food.
This is the bf's kimchi stew. Perfect on a rainy evening.

I used to hate kimchi.
Now, I can eat it by itself, even though it's supposed to
be a side dish. I love this aged bokchoy kimchi.

Peter's Pretentiously Pedantic and Prodigious Proust Project

Every year, I make it a point to read Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time, or at least the first volume, Swann's Way. And every year, I fail, big time. I can't recall a time when I made it past page 50. My editor self always feels attacked by Proust's looping sentences. And what the eff is the deal with describing one's going to bed in no less than 10 pages. Go to bed, get a kiss from mama. That's it. But not with Proust. Every act, however mundane, gets the royal treatment. Fortunately, there aren't any scenes set in the bathroom. Otherwise, we'll get long, winding sentences about a character's efforts and musings in doing the number 2.

But the hell with it—I am going in. I will read not just the first volume, but all effing seven. I will be so deep in In Search of Lost Time (or Remembrance of Things Past, if you go by C. K. Scott Moncrieff's translation) that I'll be sick of madeleines and long pages of French prose wherein nothing seems to be happening. I will laugh in the face of boredom. I will wallow in the fields of ennui. I will fight the urge to throw the books at walls or at annoying people. I will fart run-on sentences and elliptical clauses.

And why am I doing this? Because I have masochistic tendencies, and Proust's books will be my outlet. Because every time I see a picture of Proust, he seems to be mocking me. "Weakling!" "You're like the lowest form of reader? Merde!" "Tu pues du cul!" (I have my French teacher to thank for this wonderful bit of profanity. I think it means something like smelling like you came out of an ass.) Because I feel a special affinity for Proust. I mean, this was a guy who spent most of the daylight hours in bed and only left it just to go to dinner invites. The life! Also, he was gay. So we're like sisters.

But, but, but. This doesn't mean that I'll read all seven volumes in one go. There will still be the occasional suspense novel or the sappy gay romance or the latest hyped bestseller. If anything, I'll probably read a volume between one or two other books that I finish. Right now, I've rediscovered how enjoyable it is to read the Agent Pendergast novels by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. (I stopped reading the series a few years ago.) So Swann's Way after a couple of these thrillers. Because nothing makes a better palate cleanser than a French novel about French people doing French things (except for French kissing and the blowjob, which I heard the French apparently invented).

So I figure it'll take me at least 3 years for this project, no? But I'll be blogging about my progress every now and then. And probably, just to annoy some people, I'll follow Proust's writing style in my posts. It's like my "eff you" to Twitter shoutouts. Because why would you use just 140 characters to say something when you can go with 10,000? 

Crazy rich gaysians

I found my calling in three words—to be a crazy rich gaysian. And that's primarily because I saw the movie Crazy Rich Asians last week, and I loved every part of it. I guess you'd say that I was predisposed to liking it, being a crazy Asian myself, but frankly, I wasn't expecting anything much except to watch how two things this movie has in buckets, which are diversity and inclusion, would be translated to the big screen.

Singlish is love.
And I miss hearing the expression, "Can?"
Like, "You free for dinner tonight, yah? Can?"

The mostly Asian cast did it for me. Ah, Henry Golding . . . Just be the next James Bond already. I swear, every time he's on screen, you're struck by how shiny he is. And that voice, so sexy it can make polar ice caps melt. Good fashion sense too, on and off screen. There was this issue about him not being too Asian enough, as his father's British. But let me tell you, dear reader, when I look at him, I see only an Asian face. Constance Wu is so precious that you wanna put her inside your man-purse (murse?) and just take her out to show her to your other gay friends and fag hags. Can't believe she's 36, a few years older than HG, who is 31. Asian age can be deceiving, yes? And when I grow older, all I want is to be Michelle Yeoh. If HG is hot, MY is so icy that the temperature drops whenever she enters a room. And don't we all wish that we can have a bff like Awkwafina?

The book club discussed Crazy Rich Asians in 2015. I remember liking it and defending it when a few people commented that there's an inherent shallowness in its story, that it's all fluff and too materialistic. Well, isn't that the whole point of the novel? I think I mentioned that we shouldn't really think too much about it. And that it doesn't ask you to read it in another profound, deeper level. It's all about Asians who are filthy rich, some of whom are so full of themselves that they're blind to all of their shortcomings. The novel's storyline is classic telenovela fodder: outsider girl marries into an old rich family. It's something we've all read and seen in varying permutations, even when we were young when we listened to fairy tales. But Kevin Kwan't novel is distinctly Asian. For that alone, reading it is an experience.

Anyway, let's get back to the movie, yes? It's just so fabulous. I suddenly miss Singapore, with its shopping malls with their airconditioning on at full. I swear, every time I enter a mall in Singapore, my balls shrink a few centimeters. What is going with the AC? It's like people there want to escape that tropical humidity as much as they can. Also, one is amazed at the genius of the costumes in the movie. Constance Wu's character isn't rich, but she ends up not wearing the same thing twice because of crazy rich Awkwafina, who plays her close friend. Yes, some of the things she wore might appear frumpy and too fussy, but they suit her. Henry Golding looks like a god with or without clothes. Michelle Yeoh's clothes are all clean lines and sharp silhouettes, which fit her stiff character. And Awkwafina is one of the few people on this planet who can rock a pajama-type ensemble. Did I mention that seeing shirtless HG is life changing?

Taken right before the book club's discussion
Gaysians know that one should hold wine glasses only at their stems.

If I turned into a cockroach

I finished another story by Kafka recently—the one where the main character wakes up one day transformed as a cockroach, "The Metamorphosis." And can I just say that I loved the absurdity of it all. Like when you read The Idiot, you just swallow your disbelief and just run with it. Of all things that one can turn into, Kafka had to choose a cockroach, that vile insect that everyone seems afraid of. And my goodness let's not talk about the flying variety.

Now I'm not a person who's uncomfortable around insects. I love them arthropods—beetles, ants, termites, mantises, etc. Yes, some of these are pests, but as a Bio major, I know how important they are to the ecosystem. But cockroaches are another matter. I have always speculated what their roles are. Ah, one of the great mysteries of life. These critters should be annihilated. When we were in line at a temple in Bangkok, we saw a cockroach idly crawling near us. Of course, none of us dared to step on it because, you know, Buddhist respect for all life. I could imagine all the feelings of disgust and desire to scream and flee from the insect that they bottled inside. Of course, the bf and I were just amused. We come from a third world country; we literally sleep with these critters.

I have a weird affinity for spiders though. I can't bear to hurt these cute animals. When you meet a spider, keep in mind that it's probably more afraid of you than you are of it. And it'll probably sting only when provoked. Interestingly, this morning I saw a huge spider in the shower. Probably with a leg span as long as my hand. (BTW, I have huge hands.) So you can probably understand my dilemma. Should I risk it and take a shower? Or should I just splash water on my face and just put baby powder all over my sexy body? In the end though, I took a very quick shower (i.e., 2 minutes) at the farthest corner of the bathroom.

And crap, I have digressed in the two previous paragraphs. So let's go back to "Metamorphosis" and how I reveled in Gregor Samsa's transformation. Imagine waking up one morning being unable to immediately get out of bed because you've discovered that your body is now flat and you find it difficult to move your legs, all 6 of them. Then your family's, like, no biggie, we'll just lock you in your room and feed you every day. I find it ironic that Gregor would turn into a cockroach, that creature which seem to serve no purpose at all (except to make white people squirm). Prior to this metamorphosis, Gregor was the breadwinner in his family, earning enough not just for his family's day-to-day but also to pay his parents' debts. But you couldn't do that anymore if you're a cockroach, no?

Eventually, his family's tolerance to his new form reaches a tipping point—they can no longer stand having him in their house. At one point, in a hysterical set piece, his father was trying to step on him while Gregor was scurrying around the walls and the floor of the room. "Metamorphosis" is a sad story of a man caught in a surreal circumstance. Kafka doesn't even bother to explain this transformation. And why would he? It's the utter in-your-face absurdity that makes the story. 

Kafka virgin

My two favorite quotes from Kafka's The Trial

Our book club's selection for this month is Kafka's works, beginning with the novel The Trial. I've never read Kafka, and I have this notion that his works will read like those of Russian novelists such as Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. I have a special affinity for Tolstoy's and Dostoevsky's novels. I don't mind that their main characters are drunkards (or throw themselves in front of a moving train), they live in squalor, and the weather is always freezing. Somehow, pondering about life's biggest questions seems easier if you have these unfortunate conditions. Maybe I'm just a closet romantic, no? But Kafka's The Trial is completely different in tone and subject matter. And I am jarred. Well, at least for a few minutes.

The first thing that struck me about The Trial is its pace. The writing is so frenetic that it leaves you catching your breath—long paragraphs with hardly any punctuation, dialogue that you have to decipher as to who exactly is the one speaking the lines, and events happening one after another in a span of a few sentences. I love it. The pace is perfect in evoking an atmosphere of claustrophobia and unpredictability, as these characterize the situation tha Joseph K., the main character, is going through. What exactly can K. do when he wakes up one morning to find people in his apartment who are there to arrest him for a crime unspecified throughout the story?

But pacing aside, the novel's story is told straight through. But the range of situations that K. finds himself is so vast that it forces you to question the genre of the novel. Is it absurdist? Is it metafiction? Is it a satire? But cares about genre these days anyway? I don't. I just want a good story. So, these situations—they can go from being absurd one moment to sensual the next. And it is this absurdity that makes me forgive K.'s wrongful actions or, more often, inaction to be able to get himself out of that ridiculously surreal situation. How can one act rationally if the circumstances that go your way are irrational?

Bureaucracy is one of the prevailing themes of The Trial. No matter how many people that K. meets who can help him with his coming trial, no one seems to have a clear idea on how to help. K. is forced to consult a lawyer, listen to a preacher, and talk to a painter and court reporter. They all present a grim outlook for the trial. It's a bleak picture that Kafka paints in this story. It's not exactly entertaining, but it certainly makes you pause and think. I have so many questions after finishing the novel. Thank goodness for Google.

The cover of my copy of The Trial kicks ass.

Artsy fartsy AF (part 2)

A continuing series. If you give an eff, you can check out part 1 here. Also, my Instagram here. A warning though, my IG is a bit all over the place—food the bf and I cooked (a good number are pics of frittatas), travel, chihuahuas, and the occasional random shot.

Probably my favorite book of 2018 (so far)
Couldn't recommend this enough

Woot, woot! An LGBTQ young adult novel!
Such a profound question this novel poses—Is humanity worth saving?

Another wonderful read, with fully realized characters. Worth the hype.
Loved all the characters' voices that each take you to a different time

I've been waiting for so many years for Miller's next novel
This one feels different though, but still has lots of drama

Had no expectations for this one, so was surprised that I really liked it
Shoved this book into the faces of a few peeps at the office

And of course there will be horror, and one that uses the story of the Donner party as context
Second half wasn't as good as the first, but still satisfying overall

Why listen to podcasts

The stories, man. The stories. You listen to them podcasts because of the stories. And believe me, there is a story for every one.

I still have my trusty iPod, which I use to listen to podcasts.
Too bad they phased this line. Very reliable, this gadget is.
In a way, it started my ongoing love affair for all things Apple.

I've been listening to podcasts since I was in my early 20s. Back then, there wasn't a while lot to listen to. They were more or less recorded radio shows. But now, oh boy, I am always aurally stimulated. Podcasts are now my go-to whenever I crave for stories. Besides, they do help a lot with my commute.

I've rekindled my habit of listening to podcasts a few years ago, listening to them sporadically whenever I felt like it. Nowadays, not a day goes by when I don't listen to a single podcast. I gobble podcasts like I used to ate Kraft caramels. Like peanuts. Chomp chomp. One after another. (I had no fear of diabetes.)

Some of my favorite podcasts
A hodgepodge of entertainment and education

Then last year, Serial came out. It was a game changer. Suddenly, everyone was curious about the murder of Hae Min Lee by Adnan Syed back in 1999. I got so hooked by this podcast that it got me thinking—this is one incredible way of delivering a story and I want to moderate a discussion on the podcast as a storytelling medium for my book club. So next year, we're going to talk about Serial. Hopefully, the second season will be out by that time too.

My goodness, listening to Serial was agony, but in a good way. Argh, the perils of waiting every week for a new episode. And pretty soon, all 12 episodes have come and gone. Of course I wanted more. I needed my Serial fix like I needed a cigarette after sex. (I don't smoke, but you get what I mean, yes?)

So I got to exploring other podcasts and what I found would ultimately lead to a diverse listening experience. And, more importantly, something that would make the ultra hyper mega super duper heavy traffic in Manila just a bit bearable.

I love horror, so I was happy to discover the No Sleep Podcast. It's a weekly podcast wherein each episode has an average of three horror stories. I haven't been frightened by a good horror novel lately, but some of the stories from the No Sleep Podcast have creeped me out. Then there's the Mystery Show, wherein the host, Starlee Kine, attempts to solve a mystery every episode. I particularly liked the one where she finds out Jake Gyllenhaal's actual height.

If there's one podcast that I feel should come out with more frequent episodes, it's The Truth. Each episode is a radio drama. Honestly, you just never know what you're going to get. Always a pleasant surprise, listening to The Truth is. Jonathan Mitchell, the producer, is a god. For the food lover, I recommend Spilled Milk. The hosts (Matthew Amster-Burton and Molly Wizenberg) talk about one particular food per episode and the result is hilarious. Lots of cred on this one, as the hosts are chefs and food writers. I also love Molly's blog, Orangette, which recently won the James Beard award as best food blog.

If I need a good laugh, there's always The Flophouse. It's a movie review blog where the hosts hysterically skewer a bad movie per episode. (They watched it, so we don't have to.) Another brilliant podcast, 99% Invisible, delves on design. I love how the podcast looks at the design of things we seemingly take for granted—the game of basketball, our highways, and even those dome houses. Freakonomics Radio is always a reliable listen. So is Reading Lives, which appeals to my book-ish self. In each episode, the host, Jeff O'Neal, talks to one person about the books that have influenced him or her since childhood.

I have no qualms that listening to podcasts have taken away valuable reading time. I still get my stories, although in a different format. And I am still reading, albeit a bit more slowly. In fact, I'm reading Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell. I tried watching the first 2 episodes of the TV series, but somehow, I couldn't get into it. I know there's a good story in there somewhere, so I'll just get that from the novel.

One of three books inside my bag.
This copy has severely yellowing pages.
I literally wiped off dust bunnies from it.

And I have been spending a lot of my weekend recently at R's place. R is doing some major interior decorating. He just finished having one room painted blue, which is almost the same shade as that of the Tardis of "Dr. Who." I don't really get "Dr. Who," but goodness, this shade of blue, I super like!

Lots of shelves in R's blue room.
In one shelf, his favorite book (Ready Player One) is next to mine (I, Claudius).
Could our reading tastes get any more different?
Who cares? He reads. And that's mighty fine.

One side of R's blue room has this huge world map.
We're thinking of putting markers on the places that we plan to visit.
Ah, all the possibilities!

Why read Faggots

Because it's Pride Month! Because this 1978 novel is groundbreaking. Because there's a sexy Winston cigarette man. Because it's a study of excess, and like all things excessive, it's heartbreaking to know what will happen later, when all things bright, care-free, pleasurable, and orgasmic come crashing down because of disease. Ah, Faggots, I couldn't recommend you enough.

Most people would know Larry Kramer as the playwright who penned "The Normal Heart," the play that has AIDS and the gay generation who first suffered because of it as its center. I love that play. If you haven't read it or seen it on stage, please do and have a box of tissues at your side. I guess the same thing can be said of Faggots. You still need a box of tissue, but for a different kind of body fluid. Wink, wink.

Of the 2,639,857 faggots in the New York city area, 2,639,857 think primarily with their cocks.
You didn't know that the cock was a thinking organ?
Well, by this time, you should know that it is.
― Larry Kramer, Faggots 

Faggots is a wonderfully dated work. I feel its appeal and charm grows through the years. It's somewhat of an autobiographical work, as the main character, Fred Lemish, is loosely based on Larry Kramer. Lemish is one of the many characters we meet in this kaleidoscope of a novel, where each character comes to grips with his sexuality, his place in the 1970s gay community, his continuous search for sex, love, and belongingness.

Never again will the gay community experience such excess, where it's de rigeur to go to bath houses, participate in orgies, be oblivious to people watching you as you engage in sex. The 1970s were a time when people actually had to go out of their houses to hook up. There wasn't any Grindr to speak of. There weren't any pics of your private parts going around. You have to see these intimate parts up close, usually in the club's bathroom. And if you approve, you take him home.

One of the characters in the novel is the handsome and sexy Winston man,
who is clearly a shoutout to the classic Marlboro man. 
The mustache was big among gay men in the 70s and the early 80s.
Hmmmm . . . mustaches. Reminds me of this very un-PC joke:
Why do gay men wear a mustache? To hide the stretchmarks. Tasteless, I know.

The 1970s was quite hedonistic, as it was the pre-AIDS era. Pretty much everyone humped like rabbits. We do know what happens after that period, yes? But that is a discussion for another day. In Faggots, it's all about drugs and sex. The novel portrayed the gay community back then in such an honest light that it showed some unflattering aspects of gay men. A few gay activist groups cried foul. Manhattan's one and only gay bookstore at that time even pulled the novel out of its shelves. I guess the truth really hurts. So Faggots basically pissed off both the straight and the gay communities.

In a way, I feel indebted to the characters in Faggots. These people belonged to a generation that was instrumental in LGBT equality. These were the first gay men who had the courage to go out in public and declare their sexuality. Yes, some of them were persecuted for it, and some of them died because of the unsafe sex they all practiced. But today's LGBT community would have never existed because of these people. For a few years back then, they partied, and they partied hard. But they will never party like that ever again. Their fight started the long battle toward equality. And it's still far from over though.

Even the title of the book is an indication of its now-classic status. I would never ever call someone a f-----. I don't want to go to gay hell. You can even get flak for calling someone this name, like what happened to this Gray's Anatomy actor. It's pretty much like the "n" word now. But unlike the "n" word, it's seldom used among gay men. Now, it's all about "queer." We have queer cinema, queer lit, queer everything.

We're here, we're queer, and we have fierce queer faces. LOL.
With my good friend Orly, who blogs about theater, books, and whatnot.
My goodness, it took so many takes just to get this shot. (27 takes, I think.)
That fierce look is so difficult to pull off! My cheekbones hurt.

In Faggots, there's no sugarcoating to what was happening to gay men in the 1970s. There's no bubblegum romance angle. There are no twee story lines. The novel feels very gritty, but it's also funny as hell. The dialog and the one-liners are a gas.

“Holy shit," somebody muttered in the dark.
"A virgin," sputtered another.
"I didn't know they still made them."
"He just did.” 

“Looking thirty, claiming forty, actually forty-five.” 

I do make it a point to read LGBT books every now and then. My favorite read last year was a gay-themed young adult novel (Aristotle and Date Discover the Secrets of the Universe). I consider Edmund White, Sarah Waters, and Alan Hollinghurst to be literary gods. I love Edmund White's A Boy's Own Story and The Farewell Symphony to bits. But I have never read a novel like Faggots. It's raunchy, hysterical, always on point, and fascinating. And it took me to a time when everyone scratched one another's itch, shoot drugs like there's no tomorrow, and basically live your queer life like it's the last day of this queer effing world.

One of the funnier queer novels I've read recently is Robert Rodi's Closet Case.
A bit dated, as the novel was published in 1993. Still campy and a riot though.
Again, so many takes just to get the right look for this picture.
You should've seen the photographer's face. It was fierce, but in a non-queer way.

Why read The Old Man and the Sea

Ah, Papa Hemingway. I just love your sparse sentences. Sometimes, I try out your writing style. Just the subject, followed by a short predicate. It reads like crap though. Like the sentences in this paragraph. Such a total waste of virtual real estate. So I bow down before you, Papa Hemingway. You make it seem so easy.

My first Ernest Hemingway read was A Farewell to Arms. That book made me an instant fan. I reread a few pages of it last month, as the book club's theme for May was all about Ernest Hemingway: his works and a bio. Then I realized that some of the lines spoken by the main characters are just so insufferable. I gag, but in a good way.

Here's a rather simpler way to show this to you, dear reader. Man asks, "Do you love me?" Woman responds, "No." Man asks again, "Do you love me?" Woman responds again, "No." Man asks for the third time, "Do you love me?" Woman finally admits, "Yes." To which the man says, "I like your hair." Argh!

The book club's swag during the discussion
I wonder if Papa H would approve of all these.
Somehow, I imagine him thinking, "Great. More stuff I don't need."

But I'm not here to talk about A Farewell to Arms. I love that book too much to talk badly about it. What I want to discuss is a much shorter work of Hemingway, which is The Old Man and the Sea. I'm not too sure how to categorize it—is it a novel, a short story (that's gone too long), or a novella? Let's just call this a novella. I love that I suddenly became all gung-ho and just decided that for you, dear reader.

Anyway, The Old Man and the Sea is the perfect book to read if you haven't read any of Hemingway's works. It's short, which will make you instantly decide if you like his writing style or not. It's also what I would like to call a gateway novel. It connects Hemingway's older works with his later fictions. It won the Pulitzer Prize, and I think it just might be the work that tipped the Nobel committee to award him the Nobel Prize for literature.

Wasn't Papa Hemingway a hottie? I get palpitations looking at this.
He served as an ambulance driver during  World War I.
Well, he can take me to the hospital anytime. 

I am partial to Hemingway's earlier works though. The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms are just brilliant. His later novels were hits and misses. The novel that preceded The Old Man and the Sea was very much lambasted by critics; it prompted Hemingway to write something that he said will be his best work. I don't think The Old Man and the Sea is his best though. But a lot of people from the book club liked it, which is good enough for me.

I don't think the novella is about man versus nature; it's more of a man-versus-himself kind of thing. The old man and the marlin that he has caught and held on for a few days are like mirror images. Only a great man can catch a formidable inhabitant of the sea. And having caught the marlin, the old man proved that he still had it in him. He still got his mojo. He rocks.

What I didn't get in the novella are all those religious references pertaining to the old man. He was supposed to represent Christ. He got wounds on his hands which some people compared to, ummmm, the stigmata. And when he finally went home after having spent several days in the sea holding on to that marlin, he collapsed in his bed in a position similar to Christ being nailed on the cross. Whatever. But the novella did make me crave for sushi. Mmmmm. . . Having fresh sushi—now that's a religious experience.

Oh, and this is the first official book club discussion that I attended this year. There's just been too much work. And I had to keep R. company, as the past few months were a very difficult period for him. Well, it definitely felt good to be back, and what better time than a discussion on one of my favorite authors.

R. (right) and I (left), after the book club discussion
Yes, we both wear reading glasses now.
No, we are not hipsters.

We also got the chance to read any biographical work on Ernest Hemingway. I didn't finish mine though. But thank goodness for Wikipedia, yes? From what I read of Papa Hemingway's life, he certainly did lead a very interesting one. War veteran at 19, married 4 strong women, lived in 4 continents, struggled with depression, took his own life. Compared to his, my life seems very much uneventful. But looking at what happened to Hemingway during his twilight years, I realized that uneventful is good.

I opted to read A. E. Hotchner's classic memoir of the time
he spent with Ernest Hemingway. It's a heartbreaking read.

And so the killing ends

Don't you just hate it when a book series with characters whom you've grown attached to finally ends? That's how it is when I turned the final page of the 3rd book of Barry Lyga's fantastic trilogy I Hunt Killers. The final installment, Blood of My Blood, is my 2nd read for 2015. And boy did it deliver.

For some reason, I can't help but think of the trilogy's protagonist as a uber handsome teenager with all the angst and grit that goes with being the son of America's most dangerous serial killer. I grew to love Jasper Dent. He's very grounded. Lyga makes the Jazz's character very realistic that you keep on going back to the time when you were at that age and had the same issues.

The I Hunt Killers trilogy is basically a cat-and-mouse story. Would Jazz finally be able to help the authorities catch his evasive serial killer of a father, Billy Dent, who's murderous spree spans several years? Would Jazz be the one himself to kill his father? What about Jazz's mother? Is she somehow involved in all this gore?

Blood of My Blood tied everything together and gave a truly satisfying ending to the nail-biting story. Yes, there were even a couple of mind-blowing twists to what the reader may have believed from the start. And I'm thankful that Lyga didn't proceed with the idea that Billy Dent may not be the father of Jazz after all. Having that premise would just mess up the notion that it's impossible to escape the things that your family imposes on you, genetic or otherwise.

Read this one during the first day of the year,
literally while the fireworks were still ongoing after 12 mn.
That's my just-got-out-of-bed look.

However, I would have liked to have read more of Jazz's best friend, Howie, in the final installment. That's one quirky character. I loved that teenage hemophiliac. Unfortunately, his character becomes a minor one. Blood of My Blood, after all, is the book that needs to have all the Dent family at center stage.

I highly recommend the series to people who are into thrillers. Looking back though, the series isn't just about that. It's a coming-of-age tale too. In Blood of My Blood, Jazz confronts his family, really see the evil that they have done, and learns that he does have free will. His name will forever be tied with his family, but that is not all that defines him. You really can't choose your family, but you can choose to go a different way.

Read this book if:

1. You've seen The Silence of the Lambs at least 7 times.
2. You've wanted to kill a family member at some point.
3. You love thrillers.

Life in miniatures

My first read for 2015 arrived with a lot of hype riding on it. Unfortunately, Jessie Burton's debut novel, The Miniaturist, doesn't live up to it. It's entertaining, yes, but I got a feeling of want after turning the last page. And my immediate reaction was, "That's it?"

Burton's novel concerns itself with one Petronella Oortman, a 17-year-old who arrives in Amsterdan to join her husband, the wealthy Johannes Brandt, after their arranged marriage. Johannes doesn't have that much time for Nella, being a busy merchant trader that he is, and leaves her to the company of her spinster-ish sister, Marin Brandt.

Nella and Marin don't hit it off. Ah, the usual in-law rivalry. So what is Nella to do to while away her days of ennui? Apparently, nothing. Just go through with being a trophy wife. But then Johannes gifts her with a cabinet-sized replica of the Brandt home. Nella decides to hire the services of a mysterious miniaturist, who has an uncanny ability to produce miniatures that mimic what is happening in real-time in the Brandt household.

My first read for 2015

Who is this miniaturist? How come he or she somehow predicts events through the miniatures that he or she creates? When one of their dogs gets killed, for example, the replica has a blood stain on it. And what the hell's the matter with Johannes and his non-ability to consummate the marriage? And how about Marin? Why is she so bitchy all the time?

The Miniaturist does provide answers to these questions. But the way it does so has the feel of lazy storytelling. The miniaturist turns out to be a woman, who has the supernatural ability to "see." Sounds simplistic? It is. Oh, and Johannes turns out to be gay, which explains his inability to keep it "up" even when Nella attempts to cop a feel. Marin turns out to have been involved with a man who seems to be Johannes's nemesis in the heavily enterprising world of 17th century Amsterdam.

The clichés continue to pile up on top. Marin becomes pregnant with their black servant. When Johannes find himself imprison for the crime of sodomy, it is Nella who takes over the business. Somehow, we're made to believe that Nella acquires her business acumen overnight. And for the life of me, I can't figure out why Nella feels to have this deep connection with her husband even when they've hardly spent any time together. It's a mystery.

The Miniaturist could've been a beguiling piece of historical fiction. All the elements are there—manipulative in-laws, nosey househelp, devious businessmen and their wives, and nail-biting courtroom drama. But Burton just skims over these aspects. What you get is just a watered-down atmosphere of Amsterdam in the 1600s, which just feels damp and cold all the time.

Read this book if:

1. You find doll houses creepy.
2. You're into historical fiction.
3. You're curious about the hype.

Not my kind of story

I was prepared to like this book. Even thought that it would end up as a favorite. It has all the things that a bibliophile can relate to—collecting rare books, running a bookstore, having a partner who's also into books, being a part of a book club. But at the final page, Gabrielle Zevin's novel, The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry, just didn't deliver.

Maybe because it touched on a whole lot of things, that the result is just several story lines spread too thinly. It's like biting into a supposedly dense cheesecake but what you really feel is a light chiffon cake. Or just plain air. Perhaps the flaws lie on the themes? They're just all over the place.

Anyway, there's really nothing new about this novel. A. J. Fikry, a recent widower, runs a bookstore in a small island. He's grumpy as hell, and one fat ass book snob. Then one day his rare copy of Edgar Allan Poe's Tamerlane gets stolen. Then he adopts a precocious baby that's left on his doorstep, who becomes instrumental in changing his dark demeanor.

It would've been more palatable if the novel focused on the story between Fikry and his adopted daughter. But no, there has to be romance and mystery. Fikry eventually marries a book agent, who helps him run his bookstore. And the mystery of the stolen Tamerlane has to be solved, albeit in a most unimaginative manner. Along the way, you meet a host of other characters: the detective who runs a book club, Fikry's sister-in-law, Fikry's sister-in-law's philandering husband, to name a few.

If the other characters in the novel remain unnamed in this blog entry, it's because they're so cookie cutter figures; I've forgotten their names. Even Fikry was someone I couldn't relate to, much as I tried.

The whole novel reeks of Hallmark. You know those movies when everything just works out cleanly in the end? The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry is that. It's so clean and wholesome that it feels antiseptic. Where's the conflict? Where's the dilemma that the characters have to face? Where are the destestable villains? Unfortunately, there are none. And that's why Zevin's novel is one such work that feels hollow.

I'm not going to say that this is a terrible book. But it's a cliche. The grinch becomes lovable. The philandering character dies in a car crash. The dying bookstore gets a second life in the hands of its patrons. Money magically appears. I. Die. Of. Sugar.

Read this book if:

1. You have nothing else to do.
2. You love books about books.
3. Oh, don't bother.

Not afraid to fly

It isn't often that I get to read a feminist book. But when I do, I make sure it counts. So I'm glad that another book club chose to read Erica Jong's seminal novel, Fear of Flying. If this isn't a feminist novel, then I don't really know what is. It tackles a lot of issues: female sexuality, sexual freedom, women's liberation, female psychology, family dynamics, and even religious (Jewish) themes.

The person who's afraid of flying is one named Isadora Wing. At the start of the novel, she's 29 years old, once divorced, and is currently married to a psychologist of Asian-American descent named Bennett. The marriage is by all means not an unhappy one, but Isadora is flighty. She has too many issues, too many questions, that she needs to figure out. And it doesn't help that she has to go with her husband in his conference in Austria, especially with her fear of flying.

One immediately wonders why she would choose to have an affair with another psychologist named Adrian. For one, he couldn't get it up. And another, he seems hell-bent on psychoanalyzing Isadora's every move. When they escape to the countryside, all these two have are profound conversations. Perhaps Isadora is looking for a change: from Bennett's clear-cut, rule-abiding persona to Adrian's brash, in-the-moment way of thinking. We would never know, wouldn't we? And I think that's the point of the novel.

You see, no matter what confusing choices Isadora makes, no matter the foolish repercussions of these choices, what's more important is that she was able to make these choices. She alone is to be blamed for these choices. After all, isn't women's lib all about the freedom to choose? In the '60s and '70s, women were slowly being given these choices. Some, like Erica Jong, embraced this freedom. The result is this wonderfully semi-autobiographical novel that is Fear of Flying.

In the novel, we see Isadora go against the tide. She refuses to bear any children, she decides to leave her first husband when the relationship has turned abusive, she acts on a whim even though she knows she'll regret her actions later. All of these boil down to choices. She is her own person. And you know why she does these things? Because she can.

It would be nice to meet Isadora in real life. I can just imagine the conversations I would have with her. She may not sound rational at times, but that's one of the pleasures of being with her. In the novel, Isadora is very learned, having a degree in literature and even being a lecturer on 18th century literature. Ah, just at the turn of the 20th century, it was impossible for women to have academic degrees. Isadora's choice of profession even goes against the wishes of her family, who seem to think that one needs to make money to become truly successful. Isadora would have none of that. She just loves books. Ergo, literature.

Unlike Isadora, I've no fear of flying. I love it, in fact.

It was fascinating to hear the thoughts about Fear of Flying from the members of another book club. It was my first time to attend their discussion. I must say that there isn't that much difference to discussing books. Just a few questions thrown to the group, with everyone being free to pipe in. Jong's novel is very polarizing. A few hated it for its crass language and Isadora's irrational behavior. A few commented on how the novel was groundbreaking for its time. I agree with the latter. Jong's honesty in her narrative is very refreshing. With the words "fuck" and "penis" occurring on every page, it can certainly be shocking. But let's face it, if it were a man writing those words back in the '70s, there wouldn't be any controversy.

I'm one of the people who love Fear of Flying. I think it's primarily because of Isadora. The novel may not have a very distinct plot, but I enjoyed reading about Isadora's journey of transformation. She was unsure of herself at the start of the novel. By the novel's end, she has realized that she indeed has choices that she alone can make and that she has to learn to be comfortable with these choices. The transformation is far from over in the last chapter, but at least the beginnings are there. Transformation and realization, I like.

The discussion was held in a wine cellar.
I had this fruity, Argentinian wine with Marie, the moderator.
I think I must have finished 3 glasses. Hehehe.

Read this book if:

1. You've always been curious about feminist litereature.
2. You love reading about sex.
3. You're into semi-autobiographical novels.

Particularly endearing

Sometimes, I wish that I had super taste buds. You know, being able to detect the different ingredients that make up a dish, or being able to tell whether a specific fruit or vegetable has been farmed or grown organically. In Aimee Bender's The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, we meet one character who has an extraordinary ability—being able to taste the emotions of the people who cooked the food.

So Rose Edelstein discovers that she can find out her mother's emotions when she takes a bite of the lemon cake her mother baked for her ninth birthday. In that instant, Rose detected a hollowness, a loneliness, in the lemon cake. Eventually, as she learns to come to grips with her particular gift, she soon finds out that these "tastes" are actually the feelings that the persons have at the time they make the dish.

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake is a novel that touches heavily on the family. And the Edelsteins make up a family that's unbearably sad. Rose's mother carries on an affair that lasts for years, even though she puts up this cheery veneer every time she's home. Rose's father can't seem to bear to go to hospitals, and seems oblivious to his wife's affair. Through the different emotions that Rose encounters during family meals, she gets to discover all the painful words left unsaid, the missed connections, and the frustrations of her family.

Apparently, it's not just Rose who is blessed/cursed with a gift. Her brother, Joseph, can make himself disappear for several months, eventually coming back looking tired, dehydrated, and basically clinging to life. Joseph's sadness is one that's not very easy to read. He was the one who supposedly had the brains in the family. But his potential is not realized, beginning with the fact that he failed to secure a spot at Cal Tech.

Rose doesn't fully learn to appreciate her extraordinary ability. For her, every meal taken at home is torture. She becomes obsessed with the vending machine in her school, who dispenses factory-made junk food. I can empathize. I'd rather eat a Twinkie than have a home-made omelet wherein I can taste all the sadness that goes with it. So yes, for me, Rose's ability is in fact a curse.

Bender writes beautifully. Her prose is lyrical without being too cloying. In a way, the reader can "taste" the sadness in her prose, the emptiness that clings to the Edelsteins. And I find it very apt that food is used as the conduit for the emotions. One can't just say that her or she is feeling unhappy; that person has to find a way to make the other person feel his unhappiness. What better way than to let that person consumer your emotions. Call it transference, if you will.

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake looks like a very light read. Well, it is, at around 200 pages. But it's dense with drama and its characters fully realized. You feel sad for Rose, Joseph, their parents. You want to reach the end to find out if everything goes well with each of them. It's a heartbreaking novel, this one. But you'll still be happy that you finish it.

Read this book if:

1. You value the importance of shared meal times.
2. You're super picky with your food.
3. You love lemon cakes.

Of citrus fruits and new author discoveries

I know, I'm holding a grapefruit and not a lemon.
Still feeling particularly sad though,
as I really am craving a lemon cake.

One weekday, I felt like going to my favorite bargain bin bookstore near our office. I wasn't really particularly feeling hungry despite it being lunch time. But I am always in the mood for a book hunt, no matter the weather. I recall that it was raining intermittently that day.

Anyway, I spotted Aimee Bender's novel The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake at the bookstore. I decided to buy it, as Bender seems to be one of those talked about contemporary fiction writers these days. Besides, I couldn't resist a book with this title.

As it was a rainy day, it could only mean one thing—traffic will be horrible. And it was! I have no qualms about reading on the road, especially if the vehicle is moving at a snail's pace, which is what happens to Manila's highways every time it rains. Well-lighted buses are perfect for reading!

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake did help me pass the time. One minute I just pulled it out of my bag and turned to the first page, the next I'm on page 150 and almost near my house! It's really good! The following day I read another 100 pages on the bus as well.

I think Bender's novel would be the first book I read entirely on the bus within a few days. The writing has a melancholic tinge. I have a full review coming up on this novel, dear reader. But for the meantime, here's hoping that I find another Bender work soon. Or at least a delicious slice of lemon cake.

Everyone's supposedly talking about this book

Apparently, E. Lockhart's novel, We Were Liars, is the hot ticket this season. It took me a while to get my hands on a copy, as bookstores can't seem to replenish their stocks fast enough. We Were Liars is a quick read, something that you can read to pass a lazy weekend afternoon.

What's it about? Well, WASPs. How waspy can you get when a family, the Sinclair family to be specific, spends summers in their private island in Cape Cod. They all have trust funds and have their own huge houses on the private island. Goodness, give me that kind of life now!

Anyway, the Liars referred to in the novel are four teenagers who seem to be inseparable every time they summer together. Cadence, Johnny, Gat, and Mirren form a very tight bond, and it's this tight bond that makes them believe that they can do anything. We Were Liars somewhat touches on a mystery, and that mystery focuses on Cadence, our main character.

One summer, on her fifteenth year, Cadence wakes up on the beach with absolutely no memory of what happened to her. Her mother makes it a point to shield Cadence from remembering the terrible thing that occurred on that fateful night. Was Cadence raped? Did she play a role in burning the house of their grandfather, the head of the Sinclair clan? What made the rest of the Liars seem changed after that summer?

I don't want to give away the mystery, as there's this big reveal at the end about Cadence and the Liars. I, myself, was even surprised at the ending. It's like a punch in the gut, that reveal.

We Were Liars touches on the hurt, the frustration, and the sadness that family members inflict on one another. Most of the Sinclair women are divorced, and they can throw barbed words at one another. Cadence's grandfather has been threatening to donate a substantial amount of money to Harvard. And Cadence is, well, a mess.

The novel's very entertaining. The mystery motivates you to keep on reading. Also, Cadence's voice, providing the novel's point-of-view, is very candid and touching. You just want to make sure that she'll be all right. By the novel's end though, you know that she'll pull through.

Read this book if:

1. You know that family is important, no matter how eccentric and sharp-tongued they can be.
2. You looked forward to spending your summers away from home.
3. You miss your childhood friends.

Checking out a local bestseller

This weekend, I decided to go local with my reading. Considering that stories originally published in Wattpad are all the rave, I checked out the grandmama of them—Bianca Bernardino's She's Dating the Gangster. Bernardino's online novel has found its way to print, and I've heard that it's even going to be adapted to the big screen. So I'm curious.

My curiosity eventually becomes a huge disappointment as I turned the final page. I had high hopes for She's Dating the Gangster. But it's confusing, infuriating, frustrating, and tiring. Is this what young people these days are reading? Shallow drivel. If this novel began the trend of new adult novels in the country, then I shiver at the thought of reading the countless stories it has spawned.

Bernardino's novel starts interestingly enough. Kenji, the high school heartthrob, missends a text message to Athena, who he thinks is his ex-girlfriend, who is also named Athena. The ex is later called Abigail, probably to avoid confusion. I think that the ex can be called anything, as she has absolutely no character at all. It would even have helped it she'd have been nameless. (I think the same is true for the supporting characters. They're cookie cutter characters without any distinct voice.)

Anyway, Kenji is hellbent on getting back with Abigail, so he strikes a deal with Athena. All Athena has to do is to pretend that she's now Kenji's girlfriend. Hopefully, Abigail will see them all lovey-dovey and become jealous. (Yes, the novel somehow makes you think that jealousy leads to exes getting back. Warped thinking, if I may say.)

All the clichés are here. Good girl eventually falls for the bad boy. Female character gets sick and dies, but not before male character proposes marriage. Video footage being played that shows the dead character's stupid message to the one left behind. Screaming, lovesick teenage girls squeal a lot and defend the high school gangster. This is so unintentionally funny because they would even gang up on the girl they're jealous of.

I find no redeeming quality to She's Dating a Gangster. There's a pretentious allusion to Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet," but it just leads to even more stupidity. When Athena dies and leaves Kenji still a mess (even if one year has already passed), Kenji decides to take his own life by swallowing pills. By dying, he thinks that Athena and he will never be apart anymore. Whatever.  I'd rather have a root canal than read this pointless story again.

I'm glad that more and more people are reading though. And that a lot of them are coming up with stories that other people read. I only hope that these readers develop a hunger, a craving for something more satisfying. And that our local writers recognize this craving and answer it by telling stories with more substance.

Read this novel if:

1. This is the last book on earth.
2. You have no qualms about two sweethearts calling each other Sexylove and Lovebabe.
3. Oh, don't bother.

On a reading high

So last Sunday, we decided to stay at home and just catch up on whatever stuff that needs catching up on. For me of course, that would have to be reading. As I slept at 8 pm last Saturday night, I woke up at 3 am, logged on to Facebook (goodness, 390+ likes for that photo!), checked my emails and downloadables, and started reading this latest novel by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Americanah.

I bought Americanah on a whim, as I think I remember reading about it that the novel was optioned by Lupita Nyong'o. With my A to Z classics challenge, I figured I wasn't recently reading contemporary novels more often than before.

And then I checked the clock on my wall. It was already 8 am! I almost missed breakfast! Americanah is that good, dear reader. No wonder it received a lot of awards this year and last. The hype is oh so true! Read it! Read it! Read it!

I can't remember the last time I was so enamored with a book. So passionate I felt about this novel that I just wanna rush to the nearest bookstore and get all the novels written by Ms Chimamanda. I actually called my favorite bookstore and found out that they have only Americanah in stock, and there's no news as to whether they'll stock the earlier works of this author. Sucks vacuum cleaners.

The last time I felt like this after discovering a very talented author was after finishing José Saramago's The History of the Siege of Lisbon. That novel instantly converted me into a Saramago fan, making me read most of his novels. But The History of the Siege of Lisbon will always be my favorite Saramago. The novel combined history with proofreading! Orgasmic.

The hunt is on for the works of Ms Chimamanda. I never figured that I'd be interested in fiction which is very much centered on Nigeria. Americanah is just too beautiful, and I hope that the author's other works would be just as satisfying as this one.

Creepy dolls

Dolls are creepy. And what's even creepier is if dolls find their way in the hands of Susan Hill. Yes, Hill of The Woman in Black fame has a new ghost story, and it involves decaying house, two young cousins, and lots of Gothic atmosphere. I knew at the onset that I would like this.

In Dolly, we meet Edward Cayley, an orphan, who would spend one summer at his Aunt Kestrel's creepy house in Iyot Lock. Edward would be spending the summer with his cousin, Leonora von Vorst. While the two children almost have the same ages, they couldn't be more different. Edward is pensive and sensitive, and Leonora is terribly spoiled.

Everything seems to be quite an uneventful summer, notwithstanding Leonora's tantrums and complaints. But this is a ghost story after all, and there must be a turning point for these innocuous happenings. In this novel, everything changes on Leonora's birthday, when Aunt Kestrel presents Leonora with a beautiful lifelike doll. But it's not what Leonora had in mind though. Leonora then flings the doll to the wall, cracking its porcelain face and storms out of the room. Edward takes it upon himself to get rid of the doll by burying it outside the house.

Years pass and Edward recalls the many times he has spent other summers at his aunt's. Leonora, on the other hand, never returns. It's only upon the death of Aunt Kestrel when the two meet again to discuss the terms of the will. It appears that their aunt has left everything to Edward. And what about Leonora? She gets the doll her aunt gave her on her 9th birthday. Edward shows Leonora where he buried the doll and reveals it. What was inside the box shocked them. The doll has aged in all those years it was under the ground.

Dolly doesn't stop here though. We get to read how Edward has suffered many sleepless nights hearing a disturbig sound, a sound made by someone, or something, scraping on paper. Edward knows that it's the buried doll, of course. It's calling out to him, as if it were asking him to set it free.

In the novel's final chapters, we get to know how Leonora runs out of money and asks Edward to give her the house. She's down on her luck—divorced, with a 2-year-old baby daughter, and without money. Edward, now a successful man, agrees to have Leonora stay at Iyot Lock. But then makes a very unwise decision. He finds an intricate Indian princess doll in one of his trips and gives it to Leonora. She wouldn't accept it though, and sends it back to him. When he opens the package from Leonora, what the doll looks like now would haunt him. Gone were its beautiful Indian features. The doll now had the features of a crone.

Dolly is one chilling read. Like her other ghost stories, it's almost like a novella at 150 pages. It doesn't quite hold up to the scariness of The Woman in Black, the bleak mood of The Small Hand, or the sense of dread of The Man in the Picture. But it's still a very satisfying read. I just hope that Susan Hill never stops coming out with ghost stories.

Read this book if:

1. You love short scary reads.
2. You know that dolls are creepy.
3. You'll read anything by Susan Hill.

K is for Kipling

I have a certain feeling of ambivalence after reading Rudyard Kipling's Kim, my 11th writer in my dead guy challenge. After turning over the last page, I thought that it was merely a coming-of-age novel. But then I checked out the novel's summary online, and boy oh boy was I surprised. How could I have missed all those details! To say that I felt stupid would be an understatement.

Kim, the main character, is a boy of Irish descent living in India during the British empire in the 19th century. He's a ruffian, a jester, a street rat in Lahore. Then he befriends Teshoon Lama, a former abbot whose dream is to free himself from the Wheel of Things. Teshoon Lama is on a quest to find the River of the Arrow, and he and Kim find themselves in many adventures in their quest.

As the novel progresses, we witness how Kim grows from the unruly orphaned boy that he is to a chela (servant) of the lama, a student in an English school in Lucknow, a government appointee, a surveyor (a spy of sorts), and a key player in the battle between the British empire and the Russians. And this last role is where I have a problem with. I felt that Kim was never really offered a choice in his role as a spy. Everything was laid out for him to become one.

What I did like were the amusing parts where Kim and lama travel to many exotic locations in India. Also, I found their encounters with several characters (e.g., a prostitute, a sick child, a sorceress) charming. This is where Kipling's novel shines. As for the grand plot involving espionage, everything was like a blur. I would have preferred more details, more texture, on these parts of the novel.

Kim is still an entertaining read. Although one major aspect of my ambivalence toward is whether the novel can be enjoyed by children or not. I do see Kim in many bookstores under the children's section, and there's a Puffin edition of it. But the novel's political themes may be too overwhelming for young readers. I guess if the readers are guided to focus on the characters' adventures, then I guess it could very well work as a children's book.

Read this book if:

1. You like your adventure stories set in exotic locations.
2. You've always been curious about the actions of the British empire.
3. You'll read anything by Nobel Prize-winning authors.