Reading Rage Tuesday: Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Sorry for the profanity. Except I’m not really.
Fucking A, you guys. It’s been a hell of a week for just about everyone on the planet. I don’t know if there’s something in the water, or what, but it seems like crazy not only came out of the woodwork, it blew the woodwork right off the walls.
I feel bad bitching about anything right now, because of the tragedy in Colorado, not to mention all of the other tragedy everywhere else in the world. My woes are peanuts compared to the hell those people have gone through. I have angst this week, though. I can’t help it. I’m in the kind of mood where I would just love to fucking fight someone . . . . in theory. Because in reality? I’ve never been in a fight and I would probably cry if someone hit me. Then I would play dead and hope that they would quickly get bored kicking me in the ribs.
So, I’m going to do a good old-fashioned rant. I’m not sure what it’s going to end up being about. I considered going ahead with my original plan–writing about the books vs. ebooks controversy–but I don’t want to write about something like that when I’m in a mood. I won’t treat it fairly and it’ll probably put bad feelings about book blogging in my brain; between STGRB and this ridiculous and utterly creeptastic Carroll Bryant situation, I don’t want to accumulate any more bad book blogging feelings.
This might end up being completely incoherent, and I’m okay with that.
THINGS THAT PISS ME OFF
Judgmental assholes that make the rest of us look bad.
If you’re a reader at all, you have had to put up with this shit at some point. Someone, somewhere down the line has looked at you reading a book and thought, well, doesn’t he or she just look all fancy with his or her fancy book-learnin’ and shit (except they probably used “they” and “their” because they eschew book learnin’). The more
stuck-up picky discerning you are about what you read, the more you have to deal with this. Some of us, we’re only picky because, well, it’s just our taste. It’s not that we want to be exclusive; it’s more that the thought of reading a book like Fifty Shades makes us want to gouge out our eyeballs with power drills. It’s not meant to be a statement about the State of Today’s Literature (see also, those damn kids with their X-Boxes and their crack cocaine), it’s just us reading what we like.
There’s another type of reader, though, who is picky for an entirely different reason: somewhere along the way, they have decided that what a person likes determines his or her worth as a person. These people are ruining it for everyone. When challenged, they have to whip out their e-peens (or I guess maybe their e-readers–wait, no, it would never be an e-reader) to prove that they’re the biggest and the baddest reader ever and that you’re clearly a schmuck for daring to poison their wells of literary magnificence with any talk of popular fiction. They have to look down their noses at you to make sure you feel like you’re two inches tall for having the audacity to enjoy something or to do anything that doesn’t involve sitting in a cafe and trying to look important while reading Finnegans Wake. I hate it when people do this, because at the end of the day, we all have tastes that are less-than-caviar, you know what I mean?
Take me, for example. I may not slum it too often in the book world, but you know what?
I LIKE THE JERSEY SHORE.
There. I said it.
I don’t publicize this much because of the amount of pure shit I would have to put up with for telling people that I like the show. Mainly I just cry a little to myself every time this pops up on Facebook:
(Please don’t make too much fun of my love of JS. Don’t take away the childlike joy I feel when Pauly D yells “CABS ARE HERE!”)
So, I’m stuck on this rant. Fucking stuck. I was so mad earlier, and then I kind of lost my focus; I’m still totally mad but I can’t think of anything to write. I’ve passed the point of productive rage and have entered the zone where my head feels like it’s full of bees.
Still, I must forge on!
My mailman can’t deliver my books properly, forcing me to go not once but twice to the post office this week.
So, this may only be tangentially about books. STILL ABOUT BOOKS.
The awesome folks at Two Dollar Radio, who basically are down the street from me, mailed me an ARC of How to Get Into the Twin Palms for my reviewy perusal. Now, I suppose I should actually be grateful that the mailman failed to deliver my book, leaving me the peach slip of drive-to-the-post-office-doom in my decrepit mailbox; when he delivered Dora: A headcase, he crushed the book into the box. He permanently scarred my book through his negligent book delivery. (He also crams in things like greeting cards–because, you know, I love it when I get cards and they look like this:
It makes my life.)
I hate getting the peach slip because I hate going to the post office. Well, I hate going to that post office. The one that I choose to go to when I have to send something is nice and it has a self-service kiosk that everyone else seems to be afraid of, which means it’s almost always available for my shipping needs. The other post office is located in the hood, because I live in the hood. The following things happen to me without fail when I go to this post office:
There is always a ridiculous line.
Someone always cuts in front of me in line.
There is always a person taking for-fucking-ever at the window when I get in.
When I leave, someone loitering in the parking lot always, always asks me for money. Always.
And because I got another peach slip while I was at the theater being perplexed by The Dark Knight Rises, I get to go again tomorrow. (Update: I wrote this last night, and my hubs just handed me another peach slip when he came in. Luckily, it’s for the book I picked up yesterday and won’t necessitate another trip to the P.O.)
Here’s what really sticks in my craw about it. I get that they don’t want to leave parcels on our porch. We live in the hood, like I said. Pizza delivery people won’t even deliver on the next block over because people run out of the park and mug them at night. Someone got shot a year ago half a block away from where I live. It’s not the most safe. Thing is, we have a screen door, which is where the postman will usually drop parcels that are too big for the mailbox but small enough to be concealed there. I almost tripped over a tiny box he shoved in there the other day; if I hadn’t seen it, I probably would have cracked my head on something and totally died (I might be a little clumsy). Books? Exactly the right shape and size to hide behind our screen door most of the time. They’re (usually) slim and compact; that space between the door and the screen door was practically invented to hide books.
So why does our postman always deliver them like a jerk? I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THIS.
This rant is over because it’s time for a stiff drink or five.
Usually, I end these sorts of posts with a range of discussion comments. Today, though, I’m making it FREE RANT DAY. Rant about whatever the hell you want* in the comments and we will commiserate. It’s been a shit time for so many people and we need to get this out of our system. So tell me what’s been bugging you lately. I’ll listen.
*Whatever the hell you want as long as it’s not hateful toward people here, or groups of people (did you know that when my banned book post got freshly pressed, there were actually anti-Jew rants in the comments? For really real. You can go skim them; I left them up but they’re, erm… slightly modified, shall we say? Some of these comments were cray cray to a previously undiscovered power).