The Monkey King's Used Primate Emporium and Book Reviews

I’m sorry to put you on this list, Kurt, you being dead and all. When I read your little prologue, I was sure this was going to be great as you discussed how this telephoto book came about (it came about, by the way, after a BBC experimental teleplay). Essentially a script filled with pictures, the teleplay hacked and sewed together a half-dozen novels, trying to make a cohesive storyline. They failed. This book is out of print and very hard to find, but if you do find it, it’s always very cheap. There’s a reason – it’s pretty lousy.

For this cheap imitation of something that’s actually good, I would compare this with O’Douls. The BBC and Anheuser-Busch both took a great concept – Vonnegut’s stories, and beer – and made a cheap knock off with none of the redeeming value of the original.

It’s not so much that this book is bad, more like I just don’t know what the point is. Heller obviously researched the history of King David, but he makes the assumption that we’ve all done the research as well, making a person like me, who only researches religious texts in order to make jokes in poor taste, only in on about a fourth of the jokes. I hate to say it, ‘cause this is dome high falooting material, and God Knows my faloot runs pretty fucking high, but I simply didn’t get it.

The entire experience reminds me of people who drink Corona, thinking they’re having a classy import, even though it looks and tastes like a bad domestic, only more costly. Here’s a hint people – when you have to add fruit to a beer, it’s usually because it’s pretty lousy by itself.

I’ve apologized several times for continuing to read Stephen King, even though he’s written pretty much nothing but shit since the fourth book in the Gunslinger series. When I finally stopped working at the bookstore, it was much easier to avoid picking up yet another novel written by him (he writes so much and so many people buy him only to sell it back to the store before anybody sees them that I always got my copies for free.) But I was in a used bookstore here in Hawaii, and saw a hardback copy for five bucks. Like I said, I liked the series, so it was worth it to me. Until I read it. King promised to stop writing when he wrapped up this series, and yet there have been at least three books since this book, which I’ve been fortunate enough to avoid. The sad thing is, if I found the last two books in the series for cheap enough, I’d probably pick them up.

Which reminds me of the younger crowd who will order round after round of Jager Bombs. Sweet and sour with no substance whatsoever, these kids drink so many rounds that I’m sure they’re heart is going to explode right out of their chest. Which I once read about in a Stephen King novel.

It’s amazing that this book was released at the same time as the original film, because the complete lack of humor makes it feel like a primer for its god-awful sequel The only thing this was good for was the replica poster, which, as mentioned in the original entry, hangs upside-down in my room in homage to Ray Charles.

It’s like a Cuba Libre or a Cape Cod. They are good drinks, but here’s a hint, people. A Cuba Libre is a rum and coke, with a lime. A Cape Cod is Vodka and Cranberry juice, also with a lime. There are some places that will charge you more for ordering these named drinks instead of simply asking for a drink by its ingredients, and then requesting a lime. Pink Cadillac, the bar that I used to work before it transformed into the Irish Pub that it is now, was one of those places. Just because there is a name behind it, it doesn’t make it worth the price.

Grayson is an annoying blogger who spent far too much time in front of a computer, incessantly talking about himself but happened to get famous from it simply because he was one of the first, and therefore was able to market himself. Though thousands of people are better writers, more poignant and not so full of themselves (nearly every entry in this collection manages to sneak in a reference to the fact that he is a Teacher’s Aide in an Ivy League School), he still manages to cling on to his title, probably because of the undue media attention poured on him.

Kind of like a Mojito. I confess, I finally had one about three months ago. I never got one previously because first of all, the idea of putting a bunch of leaves in my drink seems like a bad idea. Second, I know that every bartender hates making mojitos. The only reason I had one was because the bar I reviewed was famous for making them and he offered, though admitting that he didn’t like making them. And sure, it was pretty tasty, but do you really want to piss off the person who is making you drinks?

Worse is that the popularity of this drink is strictly due to the media blitz spearheaded by Barcardi, so if you do order one, your bartender probably thinks you’re a sheep. And for those in Hawaii who think it’ll be funny to come into my bar now and order a mojito – we don’t have mint leaves, because we’re a bar, not an herb garden. Ha!

Disgusting, puerile and worse, uninteresting, Palahniuk reminds me of an old article from The Onion, titled “Marilyn Manson Now Going Door-To-Door Trying To Shock People.”

What he reminds me of, what with his repulsive concoctions, is the Screaming Dead Nazi. Take three liqueurs that already taste horrible – Jagermeister, Barcardi 151 and Rumple Minze, and mix together in a stomach-turning, gag reflex inducing drink that you only do on a bet.

Look, I don’t want people to think I’m becoming a heartless conservative in my old and cranky age, but it’s this kind of limousine liberal that makes me want to own guns and vote for flat tax reform just out of spite. It’s a fucking shame this book has sold so many copies (mostly to other sensitive liberals – meaning well-off hippies). Ehrenreich is a successful woman of privilege (now extremely wealthy due to the monumental sales) who decided to “play poor,” stealing the idea from John Howard Griffin’s Black Like Me.

From the outset, she states that she has no intention of becoming homeless, hungry, without a personal car or in a situation where she might be in physical danger. Then she comes up with her astounding thesis: unskilled labor is hard, and doesn’t pay much. Surprise! As somebody who up until this year worked nothing but unskilled labor jobs (though newspaper writing and slinging draft beers really doesn’t take much skill), it’s hardly groundbreaking investigative reporting.

And it’s fucking condescending, because she’s a tourist to this kind of labor and only stays for less than a month in each of the five jobs she tries. Every job in unskilled labor starts with shitty pay. Not to get all Horatio Alger on your asses, but I’ve found, from my work as a dishwasher, prep cook, library student aide, retail cash register jockey and drink pouring monkey, that if you stick with it, work hard and show yourself as reliable, they will increase your pay to a livable wage. But that doesn’t happen in a month.

To try and pass yourself off as somebody who understands the toil and suffering of the poor simply because they briefly stopped in for the experience is insulting. If you really want to see a writer talk about these issues and who understands them because they were part of it, read Orwell’s Down and out in Paris and London instead of this drivel.

I almost feel bad that I gave the O’Douls to Vonnegut, because it probably would’ve fit better for this phony. I suppose the only comparison would be not an actual drink, but the personality of the drinker. Far too often, I’ve had somebody step up to the bar, almost always when we happen to be very fucking busy, and/or loud, and yet they want my entire attention, so they can ask about the specials (which are written on the board behind me), or the price of various drinks (also listed behind me). Finally, after a round of 20-odd questions, they pick out the cheapest drink and then pay with a $100 bill. More often than not, these people don’t tip.

Enough about the bad stuff, because I also read some stuff that I liked, and made drinks that I like as well.

• #7: Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country
  See Kurt, you shouldn’t despair! You made the “best” list as well, and technically, those BBC bastards are the ones who cut up your works for their silly teleplay. You don’t have to give me the silent treatment… oh wait, you’re doing that because you’re dead. Sorry.

  Anyhoo, Vonnegut swore off writing way back with Timequake in 1997. For the most part, he did so, unlike Stephen King as mentioned previously, releasing only a book of older short stories, and a collection of five-minute scripts he wrote for radio. But the world got too absurd for him and he felt he had to write something about it. And man, did he write. Sad, funny, bitter, hopeful – the small, 145 page book with huge margins and multiple drawings or slogans that would take up entire pages said things in his short sentences that were more on the mark than people who pontificate on the woes of the world on a daily broadcasted basis. It’s a shame he died, because the continued absurdity of the world would undoubtedly have compelled him to write more, and from this book, it’s obvious the rest of us still have a lot to learn.

  And did I mention that reading Vonnegut gets you laid? I did? Just checking. You caught that I read two Vonnegut books this year, right? Hello?

  Anyway.

  For me, Vonnegut is like a good ol’ Whisky and Coke. You can dress it up or down, drinking well bourbon or top shelf, and it’s consistently good. And whisky gets better with age.

• #6: Al Franken, Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them
  With the change to a not-reading-so-much lifestyle, my new obsessive, have-to-try-and-catch-up game has been with my Netflix queue. And so, I finally got a chance to see Michael Moore’s short-lived television series, The Awful Truth. And I hated it. Again, I’m not becoming the heartless conservative, but I’m also a lot more willing to call bullshit when I see it, even when the intentions are good.

  It’s like that with Robert Greenwald’s OutFoxed documentary – didn’t any member of his crew bother to mention that accusing Fox of being biased because they squelched opposing positions and viewpoints, and then not allowing any Fox supporters any air time was a little hypocritical and worse, negated his entire argument about the importance of fair and balanced reporting? It was the same with Moore’s show, with unfair editing and reporting, and only a modicum of information shown to strengthen Moore’s argument.

  Fortunately, Franken is willing to allow those he opposes the space to speak, which more often than not, showed them as the heartless idiots that they are. True, some of the book is fiction for the sake of keeping it funny (which it is), but as he said in his next book, if you didn’t realize which parts were true and which parts were jokes, you should probably be paying more attention to the world around you.

  His drink would have to be a Chocolate Cake, which is odd, because I personally don’t like making them or drinking them. But you know what you’re getting with it (and if you don’t, it’s Frangelico and vodka, with a sugar coated lemon on the side). But once you shoot it down and bite into the lemon, it turns into something completely unexpected, and pretty damn funny to boot.

• #5: Robert Polito, Savage Art: a Biography of Jim Thompson
  The biography of the “other” Thompson proved to be as hard-boiled, streetwise, gritty and tough as its subject, and nearly as interesting. It’s accessible to anyone, but why would you read a biography on a writer if you weren’t already familiar with his works?
  
  It goes well with a shot of Jameson, straight up. Not for every person’s palate, but does the job and if you’re not careful, it might just break your collarbone in three places.

• #4: Brian Michael Bendis Multiple works.
  Bendis writes comics. A lot of them. The lack of a good comic store close by and the fact that I don’t get a 50% discount anymore has slowed my intake, but I got a few titles, most notably Daredevil and Powers that were well-worth paying full price, which I hardly say about anybody. I’d probably buy more if one, I knew about them (I’m pretty much out of the comic book loop these days), and two, if I wasn’t such a cheap bastard.
  Drink: Newcastle. Always good when available and it’s becoming more popular, making it (and him) easier to find.

• #3: Richard Russo, Straight Man
  Any book that centers its storyline about a guy throttling a goose on live television is all right by me. Russo finally got out of his mode of writing about small town folk and the restaurants they hang out in with this book, instead writing about a small town and the university where most people mill about.

  And look, I know these entries are getting shorter, but it’s 3:20 in the morning, and I have to leave for work at eight. Or nine, more likely. Aren’t you sick of reading anyway? Wouldn’t you rather read something like, oh, I don’t know… this book? ‘Cause you should.

  Drink: Gin and Tonic. Slightly sweet, refreshing in its simplicity and the capacity to make you mean if you have enough of them.

• #2: Alan Moore, Promethea, Book 4
  Another comic, though written with such intelligence and history that you can’t tear through them with the same zeal that you would do with your average mindless comic book action hero. Moore’s heavily researched and carefully thought-out stories demand a slow pace and a careful eye – and if Zack Snyder fucks up the Watchmen movie, you can bet he’ll have more than 300 fanboys calling for his head for the honor of The Northampton Giant.

  Which brings to mind Glenfiddich; a slow, mellow scotch whisky that’s best taken in small doses, alone with no frills, save for a bit of ice. Both are meant to be savored.

• #1: Eric Schlosser, Fast Food Nation
  Schlosser may not have broken any ground with his expose on meat production and the dangers of fast food, but he did it with a style and panache that no others (that I’ve read, anyway) managed. Most books of this ilk are written by people who have an agenda, usually to promote vegetarianism, and their ham-handed attempts to convert become annoying, obfuscating the research involved.

  Schlosser instead takes his role as journalist very seriously, keeping himself out of the story (unlike Barbara Ehrenreich or Michael Moore, who want to be the story). Instead, he lets the events speak for themselves, which they do with harrowing results. It didn’t change my eating habits – I still love Taco Bell, which recently poisoned people from its lettuce – but it did make me have to remember, every time that I step inside, that it may well be my last meal.

  Which gives Schlosser the highest drink award: The Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary’s, like journalism, is something that anybody can make. The thing is, there is a skill behind the mixing of the multiple ingredients. And like journalism, a Bloody Mary is either very good, or very, very bad – there’s no middle ground. What makes it even more difficult is that not everybody likes their Bloody Mary the same way, again, just like journalism. The fact that he found a mix that appealed to the masses, shows tremendous skill indeed.

  I’ll try to write another entry before Friday, but no promises – Kelly comes to visit then, and damned if I’m gonna spend my time typing to you jerks while she’s here. As for how 2007 is shaping up, even with the low volume of books read, I’ll say this: I’ve paid off two credit cards, both jobs are going well, and in a week and a half, I’ll be returning to California for Memorial Day Weekend.

  The reason? I’m going to a live presentation of Mystery Science Theater 3000.

  See? You don’t have to read 200 books a year to keep your status as an enormous mega-dork.

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  Rating: I want a Bloody Mary.
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