Ubik Makes All Your Titles Perky and Attenion-Getting!!

Did it work? After who-knows-how-long I spent trying to remember my &%$# password and how to sign on to this google account, I finally realized that Google must have deteriorated into a previous version that no longer recognizes my naturally up-to-date password. At least it didn't ask me for a nickel. What the heck... at least they allowed me to change the password. Actually, I'm trying to figure out if I really am the only one to have posted to this point, or if you all posted already, but I missed it when google started deteriorating into said previous versions, erasing all the posts beginning with the most recent. At least I haven't seen Rick's face on any of my coins. That must mean I'm still alive!

Ok, so about the book then. It did keep my interest, and while there were times at which it felt disjointed, and I found myself wondering what in the blue blazes was going on, well... I guess it was a lot like recapping... you just keep running the tract and hopefully things kinda sort themselves out in the end. Which they seem to have done... I think. One little surprise for me was that I didn't know I was going to be reading a comedy until I was partially into the book. While unexpected, I think it helped. The increase in Levity equated to less implied responsibility to think about what I was reading... therefore quicker and easier to read. Not what I was expecting from the author of the stories which inspired the movies Paycheck and Minority Report. Other than that, I enjoyed it. Clever... interesting premise... entertaining.

And finally... whoever swapped out my credit card for Silver Certificates bearing the likeness of Kristen...

Next Book

The cobwebs on this blog are stuck to my face and I'm having a hard time pulling them all out of my hair.

The next book in the reading list is being announced. I don't want to put too much pressure on anyone to finish this book. So, if you can read it by or before December 21, 2012, when George Gilmore predicts our earth will reverse its rotation and we will all die, that would be great.

ISBN-10: 0805086587

Are we ever going to meet?

I think the title says it all.

The girl gets to choose

Okay Recappers, it is now my choice. I warned some of you that my choice would be different, and so it is.

Philip K. Dick's UBIK

The library has several, and you can find them pretty cheap online. So take a deep breath, and dive into the world of Science Fiction!

Just to clear up any misconceptions...

According to the previous post, "Snippet of an overheard conversation" quoted someone saying, "Dude..." I know that some might have associated me with this statement, however, it was not I. Might I add, that lasts night round-table (or booth) discussion was great!

Snippet of overheard conversation

"...and you really can't remember where you were when you saw those guys?" "No, for real, I can't. I couldn't concentrate because there were so many goyim around. And I've been to a bunch of places since then. Why do you want to know, again?" "I'm supposed to meet them. Or allegedly I am. But they never told me where." "Dude, I bet it's a conspiracy to keep out the Jew."

My Impression of a Misunderstood Writer

As I approached the Beer Barn, the classy establishment the book club that I’m just barely an active member in intended to meet, I recognized the person walking out and toward me. I knew who he was immediately, because his face is on the cover of the book that I just read. Actually, his mug was not on my copy of the book. The book has two covers and I purposefully chose the cover that wouldn’t stare at me while using the bathroom. “What’s up,” I said. This was my usual non-intimate greeting. “This guy inside kept telling me about painting his kitchen. He asked if I wanted to help, but I don’t think that he was serious.” “Yeah, I know that guy,” I said. He gave me an odd look. “That guy or a guy like him?” “Definitely that guy. Did he tell you about the wagon?” “No.” “How many times did he tell you he has painted his kitchen?” I asked. “Thirty-two times.” “Seriously, or are you making that up?” “I’m making that up.”

It was amazing how naturally he led me right to the most important question I could ever ask him. “Is there any significance to the number thirty-two, or is it just a random thought?” I asked. “Nothing I say or write is completely random. Everything has significance.” “Shut up!” “No, really.” “Shut up!” “No, really.” This could have gone poorly if I had continued. I was afraid that the conversation was over, but I had a follow-up question. “So, what is the significance of thirty-two?” I asked. “It’s for my favorite basketball player, Magic Johnson.” “That’s it? Nothing profound? It isn’t symbolic, doesn’t deal with our conscious feeling of being tired and desire to rest, which is completely contrary to our fear of dying?” He slowly scratched his head. “I don’t even understand what you just said.” “I didn’t think so,” I said.

We looked at each other for quite some time. I wasn’t really sure what I was thinking, but his thoughts were electric images displayed in his eerily large eyes. He was ogling a young college student and swinging his right arm in a rigid, lifeless way. And then we parted.

A night at the bar with Jon Foer....

So there I am sitting on the barstool of the "Society of Letters Bar and No-Grill." Hanging out, having a good time, listening to the banter back and forth between the other patrons (I swear if either Kristen or Josh mention "black @#$%^ bread" again I'll throw one of Tre's leftover wing bones at them) when I look over my shoulder and there's ol' Jon Foer sitting all alone nursing a black eye and a broken spirit. I excuse myself from the delightful Indian fella I've been talking with and walk over to the table in the dimly lit corner.


R: "Hey John. So, um, how's the eye?"

JSF: "Oh hi Rick, it's fine, no thanks to you. It was a little swolen at first but I've been keeping the it down with a handful of $100 bills from my last huge advance."

R: (uncomfortable laugh) "Yeah, you kinda took a beating earlier. About that, I wanted to help but, well you know, I was on the phone with my wife talking about cars and... I told you about my kitchen project, right?"

JSF: "Save it Rick, it doesn't help me now does it? You can't spare five minutes to run over with a barstool and club Franklin as he's kicking me on the ground? Josh and Dusty won't even acknowledge me but I thought you'd at least have my back. I tried damn it; I tried to fight off Bruce but he just kept laughing at me saying things like 'Hit me with your good arm, Foer!' I could be wrong, but I swear I heard him saying something about how if he'd made it as a professional wrestler his finishing move would have been called the 'final solution.' You've known me longer than any of these guys, you should have at least hit one of them."

R: "But, I do feel like I've known Jaqua my whole life. Between you and me I think he might be the reincarnation of the actual Sammy Davis Jr, he's just that likable. And to be fair, Curri had your back so you didn't need me."

JSF: "But he couldn't save me from Kristen's words - she said I was a no-talent, cliched, hubristic undergrad-English-major hack of an author!"

R: "Well she has a point, it does seem like you're trying a little hard at times."

JSF: "I studied literature, journalism, and creative writing, don't you think I'm aware of the various literary genres and styles? If it were all just a hodgepodge of unoriginal techniques and immature ambition wouldn't someone had called me out?

R: "Maybe you made it through because of some kind of Jewish control of the entertainment business conspiracy? Or maybe in lieu of your immaturity you wrote a really good story that on occasion suffers from the impulsiveness of youth."

JSF: "You're talking about the arm aren't you?"

R: "I'm talking about the arm. I can't stop talking about the arm! I was thinking if I'd only had a dead arm I would have been the coolest guy in my high school; the girls would have loved me. I was trying to think of some kind of profound meaning, but tell me the truth it doesn't have any meaning does it?"

JSF: "Nope, I was 22 when I wrote it and thought, let's give him a dead arm. Then I thought, wouldn't it be crazy if women craved the dead arm, wasn't too long until it was pleasuring all of Eastern Europe. I thought it was funny and random, like the guy on Kids in the Hall who had a cabbage for a head."

R: "Sure but what about that whole we experience illumination and a glow visible from space when we're, um, doin' it? That whole village-wide orgy thing. But later your grandfather gets more pleasure from destruction than sex, right?"

(Foer writes a bunch of stuff on a napkin and slides it across the table)

JSF: "Why don't you talk about this at your meeting, I don't have the time to talk about it here, I'm meeting Wes Anderson for dinner. It's a not-so-serious book about a very serious subject, with the juxtaposition of meaningless and meaningful experiences. I think that life, and love, is ultimately a frustrating experience that is part idea and part praxis and it's the conflict and powerlessness that occurs between the two that give us the pathos of life - well, at least for the characters, I've got so much paper I don't even know what pathos is anymore.

R: "But, as you point out, in lieu of all this frustration there are those special moments when you can look through a hole in the wall, fondle yourself, and make it all worth while, that's what I took from it."

JSF: "Yes, it took me 250 pages and a few other words, but that's pretty much it."

R: "Well, I think it's a good book and I'd hardly call you a hack. I think your second book makes you a hack. Hey, you'd better get out of here, you've been here a long time and this place can get pretty rough once Josh, Dusty, and Huskerson join in."

JSF: "Yeah, I'm going to go. Tell your Indian friend I said Hi and I hope he gets treated better in here than I did. Oh, and be sure to tell the janitor I'm sorry for the mess."

(Moments later an elderly gentleman with a mop, a bucket, and a goatee begins to clean the beer, peanuts, and bits of Jonathan Safran Foer off the floor.)

R: "Night Francis, see you next month."