"Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close"

The more books I read, the more I realize that I'm a character kind of guy. It seems that people side toward character development in a novel/movie/play or a story development person. Those who focus on characters, like me, don't care much about the plot as long as they can identify, feel emotion with, and care for the main characters of a story. We feel for these protagonists, dynamic characters, and foils more than one who cares about the story. Those who care about the story want just that: a good story. A good plot with twists, turns, and unexpected action. There's nothing wrong with either side. It seems that novels like Gatsby can be polarizing. Character people love it, story lovers tend to hate it.

Luckily, Extremely Loud can appeal to both audiences.

Oskar Schell's father dies when one of the WTC towers collapses on 9/11. We meet Oskar as he's still grieving for his father and finds an envelope that he believes is a clue that his adventure-loving father left for him. What develops over the course of the story is Oskar meeting with elaborate characters, reminiscing about his father, and seeing sides of his family he has never seen before.

We also meet Oskar's grandfather Thomas who, to me, is one of the most interesting and complex characters to whom I've been introduced in a novel. The sorrow and pain that he shares (as well as Oskar) is so realistic that you feel compelled to take part in every emotion he experiences. In what I think is one of the best scenes ever written in a novel, Thomas shares everything he possibly can to his son in a cathartic, cleansing manner that left me with chills.

I highly, highly, highly recommend this book. You laugh, cry, feel every emotion that the characters feel. The whole book will leave you emotionally tied to these characters to the very end.

4.5/5 stars

"Hate List"

So, I've been doing some serious reading. I think I've read more books in the last 4 months than I have in the last 2 years. Because of this intense overdrive of reading, I decided I'd pass on some reviews of some of my favorites. Here's the first:

I've never gone 180 on a book before.

Either I hate it or not. There's no in between. Either way, I finish it; but, I always tend to have the strongest of opinions, and they never change. This book completely destroyed my hate/love record. Through the 400 pages, I ran a course that started with a Nickelback quote (immediate hate) and ended in a valedictorian speech that perfectly summarized the emotions and feelings this book brought (tear-jerker).

Without giving too much away, the book is written from two separate perspectives. Val, the closest thing we have to a "protagonist" (written in first person) and an external, third-person party represented with news articles, stories, and transcripts. As the cover may give away, Val and her boyfriend, Nick, begin to write down names of students and teachers that wouldn't mind getting rid of. Dubbed the "hate list", Nick takes what Val thinks is a joke and puts it into action then takes his own life. The result is Val having to live with the results and return to the same school for her senior year. The range of emotions felt by Val is so well written and descriptive that I couldn't help becoming attached and rooting for her. Hence the 180 turn.

Hate List is a very realistic, well-written look at the aftermath of a school tragedy. Pick it up. It's an easy read and very enjoyable. Even if Nickelback is used as an epigram.

3.5/5 stars

Wow

3 months since I last blogged? Seriously? Is "blog" now a verb? Can we consider it a verb? Has it made the official transition of verbing and become one? Is it joining the ranks of such other verbed words like "text" and "facebook?"

Anyway, what have I done in the last 3 months, you may be asking yourself? In list form:

1. Read 30 books (not bragging, just happened).
2. Finished and began another quarter of teaching at my local community college.
3. Went black friday shopping, saw a fight. NBD.
4. Learned what "NBD" stands for.
5. Watched and became infatuated with the show "Downton Abbey." Seriously.
6. Became angry at the makers of Honda motor vehicles. It's as if they sat down and asked one another, "How can we make it nearly impossible to replace the headlight bulbs in our Accord models? Only someone with the smallest of hands should be able to replace them without dismantling the entire front end. Make it so!"
7. Received and then proceeded to beat The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword.
8. Taught an adult bible school class.
9. Pondered if "bible" should be capitalized or not (just now, actually).
10. Realized that I will turn 30 in less than 3 months.
11. Realized that I will turn 30 in less than 2 weeks (also, just now).
12. Watched every episode of Phinneas and Ferb once and every episode of Shaun the Sheep 3,000 times.

So there you go. An exciting 3 months.

Lunchroom Crush (OFF #4)

“I can’t take my eyes off of her.”

“Who?”
“Her.”

“HER?”

“No, her.”

“Oh. Her.”

“Right.”

"..."

“What?”

“Do you know who she is?”

“No. I’m new, idiot. Remember? This is only my second week here. The only people I know are you and 3 of my teachers. You’re currently my only resource of knowledge concerning people orplaces at this school. For all I know, this school could be a front for an elaborate espionage group whose sole purpose is to undermine and destroy our current system of local government. Plus, if I would have known her name, I wouldn’t have called her “her.” I would have called her Brooke or Emily…I hope hername is Emily. Emilys are always hot..or feisty.”

“It’s not Emily.”

“Oh. But you do know her name.”

“Yep.”

"..."

“What?”

“I’m sorry, maybe you don’t remember how normal back and forth dialog works. What’s her name?”

“Say you’re sorry.”

“…ok none of those words are names. It’s obvious you’re dialog-deficient. Let’s try agai-"

“Say you’re sorry.”

“Why?”

“You called me an idiot.”

“..are we having this conversation right now? Is this actually happening?”

“You know, the espionage society would be interested to...”

“Fine. I’m sorry for calling you an idiot.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“…if I don’t hear some form of a name in the air you release from your lungs through your mouth, and over your tongue in the next 30 seconds, I’m going to..”

“Michael”

“..no, I’m MiCAH. MiCAH we’ve been over this.”

“No, her name is Michael.”

“…I’m sorry, what?”

“No joke. Her name is Michael.”

“Is she…”

“Feisty?”

“No..is she..100%”

“Grade A Beef?”

“No! Is she, you know, all…genderly…original?”

“I now hate this conversation. And I’ve lost my appetite.”

“I’m serious!”

“Yes, she’s female.”

“Good…I think..so, like, is she.”

“Dude, she’s a chick.”

The Warmth (OFF #3)

The streetlights reflect off of the glistening cobblestone. Passing cars cut through the driving rain. The cold begins to invade the wet clothes that were once a warm protection and bite at his wet skin.

He hasn’t noticed. He can’t feel anything. This corpse resemblance has pervaded his core. His soul.

He’s not what he once was. Foreign footsteps on a familiar sidewalk.

The light turns red. Just ahead, their favorite coffee shop’s sign bathes the damp, dark sidewalk in neon blues and yellows. For a second, he recalls their first date, their first kiss, their first serious talk, their first favorite song, their first dance…

The light turns green, then the thoughts vanish. He pulls the collar of his jacket closer to him as he enters the crosswalk. The plastic surrounding the bouquet of flowers in his right hand crinkles and cracks like the firecrackers they released on that warm July evening. As he reaches the other sidewalk, the bouquet tumbles awkwardly out of his hand and onto the wet sidewalk. The water moves away on impact, as if repulsed. With a sigh, he bends down to pick them up and notices the petals spilled out on the cross walk. He looks further down and notices that they’ve been dropping since he left her apartment. A breadcrumb trail of rose petals; leading back to a place and time he resents most. She awkwardly searches for her keys in the dark. He awkwardly finds her neck. Squeezes. Feels the warmth leave his body as hers goes limp. All he wanted was to give her flowers. She didn’t have to reject him.

The phrase still echoes in his ear as he walks into his favorite coffee shop. He sees another brunette in the corner. The thoughts and the warmth begin again.

The Witching Hour (OFF #2)

The guests whirl and twirl around her in a thrilling blur of colorful dresses and flowers. Her heart is racing. Every nerve of her body is in overdrive. The music from violins fills every gap and crevice, dodges dukes and lords, and rests in her ears. She looks up at him. The prince. Her prince. The object of her affection. And now, it seems, the object of his. She is enamored with his eyes, his smile, everything about him.

The air changes. She realizes the guests are moving away from them. These people of higher rank and status than her are giving her room. Showing her respect and honor that she has never received. She looks back up at her prince. He looks slightly surprised as well, then finds her eyes and smiles.

“Let’s take advantage of this,” he says.

In a blurring motion, he grabs and twirls her away from him, then pulls her back again. Their twirls and dips become more fluid as her confidence grows with him. She has dreamt of this moment, enacted these moves before, but only with mops and brooms. But now, she’s royalty. Together with him. A princess with her prince. Their dancing ends with another dramatic dip, and the crowd cheers. The music changes, then slows. Her prince pulls her closer. Her head on his chest. His heartbeat in her ears. A constant comfort. She feels finally at peace. She doesn’t want to move from this place. She never wants this moment to end.

Suddenly, she hears her fear. The chimes. Breaking the rhythm of his heartbeat. The caustic chimes. This is ending. First chime..or is it second. Midnight. She pulls closer. Third. Not wanting this to end, she pulls him closer. Drowning out the chimes with his heart. Keeping reality away.

(inspired by the beautiful poet, Sylvia Plath and her poem, Cinderella, found here)

The Struggle (OFF)

“Show me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

This happened every day. The same routine, the same two parties, an epic battle of wills. When will it end? One party hoped soon. He grew tired of the never-ending struggle. He kicked himself for ever starting this. It’s your fault, he reminded himself. You’re the instigator. Now he would have to experience this every day.

“Show me!”

“I’m telling you, I don’t have it!”

“Yes, you do!”

At this point, he knew what he must do. This was only the beginning; he knew if he kept going, voices would raise. It may bring unnecessary attention. They’d been down that road far too often.

The other party, his foil, smiled the whole time. She seemed to enjoy the constant asking, no, the constant demanding, that she put on her foe. Every day. Sometimes twice in one day.
After all, it was his fault.

“Show me!” Smile.

“I don’t have it!”

The stress was becoming too much for him. His arms out stretched. One hand in a fist. The other, palm open as if begging for a hand out. Or relief. His thoughts shrieked in his head. You did this. You did this.

“Show me!”

This time, her voice was a cream; shrill like fingernails going south on a chalk board.
His ears loosed an unnatural groan as the scream reverberated his ear drums. This had gone on long enough.

“Fine.”

The little girl jumped and danced. He slowly opened it, revealing the quarter hidden in the crooks of his palm. She grabbed it with a smile and chuckle.
She paused..then shoved it back to the seated man in front of her.

“Do it again, Daddy! Again!”

The man, with a smile, willed the courage to start the struggle over again.