Did you miss me?

11 Jan

So, it’s been a full month since I last graced these pages with my feeble attempts at wit and snark. It’s been a full month: finishing up a masters program and now going through the demoralizing process of job-hunting. Which must be what internet dating is like: you get rejected without even knowing you are getting rejected! It’s not even like a first date because you don’t even get to that soul-sucking phase of things.  See, this is why I don’t date and prefer to ruin my friendship by dating people I already know and who have not rejected me instead!

This week promises to be very special. And not just because I’m not a lazy-ass anymore! (Would you think any less of me if I told you that the reason I have been on hiatus has more to do with preferring celebrity gossip to actual work? Oh Casey Johnson, RIP. You are doing lines in Heaven’s VIP room now.) Anyway, I’ve got a load of juicy books just waiting to be thrown to the lions. Let’s start simple, since I’m rusty, much like Tiger Wood’s golf clubs or sense of judgment.

Wait, WHO is the intended audience for this? Oh yeah, it's CHILDREN.

The kids of 1947 loves them a good lusty tale of slave trading. It helps in dealing with the fact that the Russians will have a man in space sooner than we do, snap! It’s not just the word “lusty” so prominently displayed on the cover as much as how highly sexualized the male slave is that makes me squeamish. His glistening, lithe, sculpted physique just barely covered in a red loincloth makes me think less of the evils and cruelty of slavery and more along the lines of “damn, how did he get those abs so tight? I wonder how many crunches he does a day?” Of course, I am shallow and crude, so there you go. Further, it seems that the illustrator tried to cram everything about the story on the cover and the result is a confusing mess: apparently there is a field to be worked directly next to the sea on which ominously rests the ship that brought them over while the field master gets ready to use his whip while showing off his gun. It’s all there, so don’t bother reading the book. You can for sure judge a book by its cover and in this case, it’s better written.

And I hope for his sake that  Norman Collins is a pseudonym. This is no way to start your writing career, Norman. I picture him as a twenty-seven year old horn rimmed glasses-wearing, sweater vest-clad English grad slumming it in the Village and trying to make a go of his post World War II writing career. Sadly, the New Yorker and Harper’s both keep rejecting his short stories, citing them as “masturbatory Norman Mailer rip-offs.” It’s only these slovenly dime novels that keep him from admitting defeat and returning to Connecticut to work for his uncle’s firm and get all Revolutionary Road.

Welcome back!


2 Responses to “Did you miss me?”

  1. Horatio Hornblower January 11, 2010 at 2:41 pm #

    In school we were in fits when we discovered that the Latin for “slave trader” is venalicius. We thought it was one of the rudest words we had ever heard (something like a certain Portugese term our mutual Park Slope friend is fond of) and used it extensively. Not that we were geeky or anything.

  2. Ebonie Moorehead February 6, 2010 at 10:42 am #

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