strange and random happenstance

Bookstore: Unabridged Bookstore

Location: Chicago, Illinois

Why I Love Them: Now the story of Unabridged in Chicago is going to be a little back to front, in that I went to one of their offsite events three years prior to making it to their brick and mortar. By back to front I mean that I'm going to talk about the store first and the event second. It was a freakishly cold April day, snow virtually blinded us all the way to Chicago with unseasonal whiteout conditions. After seeing the musical, Matilda, it seemed only right to go to a bookstore as Matilda herself would have done. So we headed up to Unabridged in Boystown and eventually secured parking. The store is about three rooms jammed with books. But it's the special touches, the subsections you wouldn't expect that make Unabridged a wonderful bookstore. The first place to hit is their discount section in the back left of the store, which amazed me the first time I saw it, full of so many books I wanted I didn't know which ones to buy, and yes, I was TRYING to be frugal. I did pretty good grabbing only three books from this section, two of which were ones I'd been eyeing for a few years. Yet this section, despite how epic it is, wasn't what made me love this store. What made me forever want to visit Unabridged whenever I'm in Chicago is that they had a jaw-dropping section of just New York Review Books Classics, which print so much British and Mitford goodness that I squealed with joy. And then I found their section of special edition Penguin books and it looked like my friends might not be able to get me out of there to go eat dinner. Specialty sections are easily the quickest way to my heart! As for the wall of black penguin classics, I might have developed the vapors. 

Best Buy: Though my best buy was my first brush with them resulting in me meeting Neil Gaiman. In 2013 Neil was embarking on his last signing tour promoting The Ocean at the End of the Lane. One of his stops was the Music Box Theatre which was hosting a reading and signing put on by Unabridged and about a mile and a half away from their brick and mortar. Seeing as it was 100 degrees outside we weren't in any mood to walk that distance twice therefore it would be three years later and the polar opposite in weather when I would finally walk through their door! But back to the day at hand. I have talked before about everything coming together to make a perfect day... well this wasn't perfect, it was too hot, the wait was very long, but there were moments that were perfect, and the whole day was memorable, especially the coconut sorbet I had after the event. But the highlight was sitting in the second row of a cold theatre and listing to Neil Gaiman speak. While The Ocean at the End of the Lane will never be my favorite of Neil's books, it will always take me back to sitting there and listening to him read. I can never thank Unabridged enough for getting a chance to not only meet Neil but to tell him how I found him as an author and how reading Neverwhere, after a gruelling several month ordeal reading East Asian Literature to finish my Bachelor's degree, made me actually like reading again. I didn't actually tell him all that, what I told him was that it was the first time ever my cat sat on my lap while I read an entire book. This was something Spot NEVER did. He didn't like me having my attention divided. So here's to stories about cats and Neil. If you really want to read about this day in more detail I wrote about it previously during my Gaiman Gala.

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 0 comments  

Labels: Book Signing, Boystown, Cats, Chicago, Matilda, Music Box Theatre, Nancy Mitford, Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere, Penguin, Spot, Support Your Brick and Mortar, The Ocean at the End of the Lane, Unabridged Bookstore

"There was a time when reading had stopped giving me joy, and then you entered my life. Through the magic of your storytelling you reignited a flame in me and now it burns brighter then I ever thought possible, giving my life focus. Through your stories I have met and connected with some of my dearest friends both on and off the page, because even if some is "fictional" it doesn't make them any less real, something you have amply shown. Your work has become a part of my life's journey and made it have that shimmer, that something wonderful, that something magnificent. The knowledge that something unexpected could be around the next shadowy bend and I can meet it head-on. The fact that I met you still seems as if it was some sort of fever dream. But you sat there and indulged me while I told you how in reading Neverwhere I now have a cherished memory of my cat Spot. I cherish all the memories you have given me over the years. My little Gaiman Gala was just a small way to reach out, to say thank you, to let you know that what you've done matters to me, even if you never know. Thank you." - Elizabeth

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 0 comments  

Labels: A Clockwork Orange, Gaiman Gala, Gaiman Toast, Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere, Spot

On an April day in 2013 I received an email that Neil Gaiman would be coming to Chicago that summer to do an event for his forthcoming book, The Ocean at the End of the Lane. I didn't even bother to wait, instantly buying my ticket and spreading the word among my friends that they should do likewise so we could have a wonderful adventure together. I was beyond excited because I was finally going to meet Neil. What made it even more momentous was that Neil announced that this would be his last signing tour. He'd still be doing events, just not signings that went on into the wee hours of the morning and left his hand crippled.

Fast forward several months to Tuesday, July 9th. Four of my friends were going with me and we left damn early, arriving in Chicago a little before noon. I had already secured parking in advance, so now all we had to do was wait until the doors opened at 6PM. I think when my friends noticed that there was no line and we had about seven hours to wait they thought I was a little crazy for leaving so early, but by the end of the night they would see the genius of my plan. We ate a delicious lunch a few doors down from the Music Box Theatre, and then ambled into line. Or I should say, we started a line. A line that would soon stretch for blocks and blocks, weaving and snacking over the hot pavement as the rain we were promised didn't materialize and the umbrellas we had brought were soon being deployed to block the harsh rays of the sun as we tried to cling to whatever shelter the marquee of the theatre offered us.

We even started taking turns going to the CVS a few streets down, not to get anything, but to revel in the air conditioning. That sweet sweet air. Eventually the time the doors were to open got nearer. There were actual employees of Unabridged Bookstore on sight... one of which I might have in my heat induced mania yelled at saying they were a line cutter. And yes, I did apologize once I was let in saying it was a long wait and the heat of the day had taken it's toll. Despite being the first ones in line we weren't in the first row... because that was reserved for friends. So we had to content ourselves with the second row.

That's right. There was some floorspace and one row of seats of "special" guests between us and Neil, once he appeared that is. At this point the relief of the cool theatre and having seats started to assuage the doubts of our early arrival on the scene and the hours in the blistering sun. The next hour was spent writing questions down on pieces of paper for Neil to answer in his Q and A, as well as buying even more of his books because I can not pass up books at a book signing and neither can my friends. As for my question for Neil? I know at the time I felt it was very important and I had to know the answer, but it wasn't picked and seeing as I don't even remember what the question was, it couldn't have been that interesting.

When Neil finally took the stage I had a sense of unreality. The long day, the heat, and somehow, here at the end of it, was Neil standing before me reading in that melodious voice of his from The Ocean at the End of the Lane. Whenever I read the section where we are first introduced to the Hempstocks I hear his voice like a siren call and remember the chills I had when he first read them aloud to me. Chills on such a hot day, I didn't think it was possible! Neil also read from Fortunately, the Milk, and it instantly became my most anticipated book of the fall.

But let's get to what it was all about in the end, the signing. Those few seconds in which I could interact one on one with Neil. I had brought with me an old Marvel trading card that used to be my brother's and featured Neil, as well as my copies of The Graveyard Book and Neverwhere. They had said only one item could be brought from home but I brought everything just in case, and it paid off, because they said we could have two items signed besides our copy of The Ocean at the End of the Lane and thanks to my friend and fellow toaster Aaron, I got everything signed. Neil was very polite when I pulled out the trading card giving me a little story about how they had airbrushed on his tan in a tale he's probably told many times before but which entranced me.

Yet it was my story that I wanted to tell him, about Neverwhere and a cat. About how the first time I read one of his books my kitty Spotty never left my lap, which was unheard of. Reading Neverwhere is a memory I will always cherish and it's thanks to Neil that I have it. He declared the appropriate thanks to Spot for his fortitude, knowing the fickleness of cats, and signed my copy of Neverwhere. That right there was all I had ever hoped. The chance to tell Neil how his book gave me a memory of my two favorite loves, my cat and reading, which, except for him, were always like water and oil.

My group was done with the signing line at around 9:30PM and right then is when my friends realized my cunning plan. That signing line was to go on until 3AM whereas we went back to that lovely restaurant, had amazing desserts, seriously, a coconut sorbet to die for, got back to the car by 10:30PM and were home in our beds before Neil had even had a chance to put his pen down. It was a day to remember for the rest of my life, much like a day two days later where I went on a walk and got so many mosquito bites that I went into shock. But that's a story for another day. Or a story for never. Yeah, let's never revisit that story.

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 2 comments  

Labels: Book Signing, Cats, Chicago, Fortunately the Milk, Gaiman Gala, Gaiman Reminiscence, Music Box Theatre, Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere, Spot, The Graveyard Book, The Ocean at the End of the Lane, Unabridged Bookstore

Neverwhere is the beginning for me and Neil. An instance of just the right book at just the right time. In the fall of 2003 I was unceremoniously forced back into school. I say unceremoniously because back in May with full pomp and circumstance I had graduated from the University of Wisconsin - Madison only to find out a few months later that I was shy one class; my "ethnic requirement." Being adamant that I was fed up with all the different hoops I kept encountering I decided to take the course online and spent that fall reading many books from Southeast Asia. And then I spent January and February reading even more books from Southeast Asia and swotting up for my final. At the end of it all I was dying to read something different, something of my choosing. I chose Neverwhere.

One day I was at Barnes and Noble and the anglophile in my was drawn to the cover of Neverwhere. The pull-quote saying "[it] draws equally from George Lucas, Monty Python, Doctor Who, and John Milton..." instantly sold me. In particular the Monty Python/Doctor Who angle. So I finished my course work, bundled myself under my favorite blanket and dove into the 'London Below' of Richard Richard Mayhew Dick, Door, The Marquis de Carabas, and of course, the Angel Islington. What made this reading experience so special wasn't just the way the story flew off the page but by the fact that my cat, Spot, spent the entire time curled up on my lap. Now, this might not be weird to some people, but to me it was. Spot would gladly curl up on my lap for any reason unless I had a book. Something about me with a book made him shun me. So not only did this book reignite my love of reading but it gave me a sweet memory to remember my beloved Spotty by.

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 0 comments  

Labels: Books, Cats, Doctor Who, Door, Gaiman Gala, Gaiman Reminiscence, George Lucas, Islington, London Below, Monty Python, Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere, Richard Mayhew, School, Southeast Asia, Spot, The Marquis de Carabas

Welcome Home, Bernard Socks by Paul Magrs
ARC Provided by the Author
Published by: Obverse Books
Publication Date: December 5th, 2015
Format: Paperback, 240 Pages
Rating: ★★★★
To Buy

"Recollection of our past together is the happiest of time travel." That is all that remains of Fester cat. Memories, the fur clinging to the chair in the beach house, and the echo of his voice in Paul's head. The grief is raw and real, but once you open your heart you realize that to shut off love from your life would be doing a disservice to the memory of the one you let in. Therefore Paul and Jeremy are hesitantly aware that perhaps there is room for a new furry face in their lives. At a quaint little charity shop that is also a pet rescue, full of the tat that Paul and Jeremy love most, from old disco records to moldering paperbacks, there's a room in the back full of cats. Paul has been looking at these cat's images online, thinking it was idle curiosity, but once at THARG realizing that it was more specific. They are there to meet a dapper tuxedoed cat named Sox. Despite much to-ing and fro-ing, Sox comes to live with them.

It's a new experience for all three of them. Paul and Jeremy have never adopted a cat, Fester having adopted them. Whereas the newly rechristened Bernard Socks has boundless energy with this new life full of rooms to explore as well as gardens and other cats not locked up! It will be an adjustment for all of them, but more than that, it will be a trial as their world quite literally collapses around them. With their cozy home now a disaster zone with a nice view of the looming storm clouds as their ceilings collapse. Yet they are able cope, to move forward, because of this new fury presence in their lives. They are literally rebuilding their lives post Fester and they have found a new companion for the journey. While Fester might not approve of them moving on so quickly, as he casts his wry gaze from a place that is in no way rainbow or bridge-like, he realizes that his boys need this new fury nucleus that is full of life and vim and vigor. Bernard Socks is there for his boys, and if he occasionally needs a little nudge in the right direction, that's why Fester's watching over them all. Ungow!

"You are my first, my last, my everything." The eternal question is how do you move on from your everything? When that little furry face is gone and it hurts to take a single breath. Most cat memoirs are about the cat that comes into these people's lives, makes everything wonderful, and then leaves his humans the better for having had him around. But this is false and the reason I usually avoid them like the plague. They don't tell the whole story. Despite all these narrative contrivances, life goes on and not in a golden glow of remembered love. Life doesn't stop when you lose the one you love. Cats didn't stop with the death of Fester or with the death of my Spotty. When I lost my kitty I was shocked that the world kept turning while I was stuck standing still, there in the backyard under the stars, unable to move forward.

I still have trouble with the moving forward, which makes me applause the braveness of this book. The Story of Fester Cat was about the joy Fester brought Paul and Jeremy. How despite his death, his time with them made them a family as well as raising the book above the standard fare with Fester's unique voice. While this first volume is bittersweet, knowing that Fester's time on earth is no more, this second volume is more about life. Life is messy and it's hard to pick back up the pieces. Yet Paul and Jeremy do. Paul exorcises his grief by writing Fester's story, though the coming year will try them more than once. Welcome Home, Bernard Socks is about moving on in the wake of disaster. Finding a way to keep moving forward. The bravery of embracing change and letting love in. Being willing to let time move forward and let another furry face into your heart, while not replacing the first. This book is warts and all dealing with grief and how life wins, no matter how hard it gets, which is something we all need to be reminded of.

That is why I connect to this book so strongly. Because Paul is letting us into his life. You see his pain and his joy, you see everything and it forges a strong connection between author and reader. Ironically this is a reason I usually don't read memoirs, even if written in honor of the more elevated feline. There's a lack of connection between the writer and their audience. They have created some sort of image and are there to perpetuate that. Not to offer insight or assistance, just to glorify themselves. Well, after The Story of Fester Cat I've started to revise my stance on memoirs. I saw that they could be a reflection of ourselves. I saw they could be full of truth and love and sadness and humor. This past year I have read more memoirs and autobiographies than I ever have. While I connected to none as strongly as I have Paul's writing, I have gotten more insight into myself then I would have thought possible. I also realize that my life could be a lot worse and am grateful for what I have.

But here, now, with Paul, what I connected with most is the weird little habits that develop after you have lost your furry friend. The secretly looking at adoptable cats online and forming attachments to them based on their stories and pictures. You know it's too soon, yet you can't help downloading a few of these pictures to look at later on your desktop. You might even have a cat folder on your computer, not that there's anything wrong with that. You spin scenarios in your head, you look at the hours of shelters and think, what would it hurt to drop by? Then you are shocked by how large cats are compared to the dainty gentleman that left you too soon. Thankfully for Bernard Socks Paul's habits moved into action, while mine are still in the realm of possibilities...

If there is one flaw in this book that I could point to it is that Fester's voice is so strong that it occasionally crowds out Bernard Socks. I love the little insights into the differences of their personalities. The distinguished old gentleman versus the rollicking teenager. The "ungow" versus the "weeee-oooooo!" The fact that Fester was more of a disco lover, while Bernard Socks is all about the jazz. I'm quite convinced my Spotty was into instrumentals, though not of the loud John Williams type, more the quite Sunday afternoon miniseries type, but he loved it when you changed the lyrics to songs to be all about him. Paul is just learning about Bernard Socks, getting to know him, so aside from one little talk between the two cats, Bernard hasn't found his voice yet and it's still Fester who is talking to Paul. Don't get me wrong, I love Fester's voice, I just wonder what Bernard Socks's voice will be like when he stops racing around and settles down. We all mature into our personalities and the newest inhabitant of Paul and Jeremy's house hasn't matured yet. So in other words, I see a third book in this style in Paul's future.

It's Paul's other books that brought me to him, through his fantasy writing where his stories wrap around you like a comfy blanket as he hands you a mug of spicy tea and is there for sympathy should you need it. Because Paul's books always have a ghost of himself flitting about the pages the transition from his fantasy writing to Fester's memoirs, which stayed mostly in the realm of reality, was a pretty seamless shift. The fantastical elements were missing but not missed, and if you're not a cat person and say that Fester's voice is pretty outlandish, well, obviously these books aren't for you. Yet there was a part of me that was excited to think he might one day combine his two styles. When I read in the book's blurb that "Bernard Socks escapes and discovers a ghostly cat parade that happens every Midsummer Night’s Eve in Levenshulme" I realized that time had come. Here Paul was ready to combine his two styles into something new.  

"Deep underground in back gardens cat bones stir and start to remember." When I read these words a little frisson of excitement went across my skin. I was always the dorky cat kid who totally believed that Andrew Lloyd Webber's Cats was real. I'd spend hours sitting in front of the piano with my cat on my lap trying to teach him how to play some of the songs. Because cats are magical beings that smell slightly of sulfur, and while most of their adventures are mundane, a true cat lover knows that not all of them are. And here Paul has brought to life one of those ghostly adventures, where all the cats who have left us come back to cavort on this one night every year. What it reminded me most of was the chapter "Danse Macabre" in Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book which is filled with eerie ghostly revelries. There is a melancholy frivolity to both that make them memorable. But what is most memorable is the knowledge Fester gains on his return, that cats can come back so long as someone remembers them. With this second volume ghostwritten by Fester he has guaranteed his place at the revelries for years to come. Ungow forever!

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 0 comments  

Labels: Autobiography, Bernard Socks, Cats, Danse Macabre, Disco, Fester, Ghosts, Grief, Jazz, Memoir, Neil Gaiman, Paul Magrs, Spot, THARG, The Graveyard Book, The Story of Fester Cat, Ungow, Welcome Home Bernard Socks

The Final Solution by Michael Chabon
Published by: HarperCollins
Publication Date: November 9th, 2004
Format: Hardcover, 131 Pages
Rating: ★★
To Buy (different edition than one reviewed)

Sherlock Holmes is retired to the South Downs where he doesn't concern himself with more than his bees and not falling over some detritus in his house and dying ignominiously. But one day he is intrigued when he sees a young boy with a parrot on his shoulder walking down the railway tracks. He observes the boy is about to urinate on the third rail and rushes as fast as his feeble frame will allow him to stop this dangerous pursuit. The boy doesn't answer to his shouts, yet the parrot does, issuing a long string of numbers in German. Curiouser and curiouser. It turns out that the young boy Linus is a Jewish refuge living at the Vicarage, which the Panickers also run as a boarding house. There the parrot has excited some of the residents and his strings of numerals are believed to be more than random. In fact the parrot's abilities are of interest to more people than just those in the South Downs... could the numbers in fact mean something to the war effort? When one of the Panickers's lodgers is brutally murdered and the parrot goes missing with young Reggie Panicker as chief suspect, the local police think perhaps it is time to consult the great detective himself. Holmes agrees to help. Not out of concern for Reggie Panicker or for the war effort or to stop a murderer, his bees are all that he really cares about. He agrees to help to reunite the young boy with his parrot. Because if ever there were two creatures more in need of each other it is this young boy and his bird. If he happens to solve the murder and the mystery of the numbers along the way, well, that's why he was at one time the greatest consulting detective in the world. A world which has now radically changed.

I'm fairly confident that The Final Solution became the "must read" book for me almost ten years ago because of a really good blurb in the Bas Bleu catalog. The problem with the Bas Bleu catalog is that they are masters of writing the perfect precise that makes you not just want to, but need to read the book they are selling. I have had Bas Bleu backlash many a time, most memorably with Agatha Christie's Endless Night. Yet the Endless Night debacle was in my future at this point, and so I excitedly curled up on a summer's day on my side porch to delve into The Final Solution; where I instantly felt I needed to be reading the book with a dictionary constantly open. My initial feelings were that Chabon was a little too self-impressed with his ability to obfuscate his story while simultaneously being a bit of a show-off. For some reason, despite what should be viewed as negatives, because a writer shouldn't try to make his book inaccessible, I was left with this impression that The Final Solution was a masterpiece that I just couldn't fully understand or appreciate. Flash forward almost a decade, with all the expanded knowledge and vocab that time can bring to a voracious reader and I now see the truth. This is a self-indulgent novella that exudes smug self-importance. Just because a book is dense and impenetrable to the point of incomprehensibility doesn't mean it's good and you are the problem in the equation. It means you need to look closer at the book and realize that the dense narrative might be hiding the author's smug self-satisfaction in plain sight. The purposeful use of obscure and highfalutin language combined with the "gimmick" to never actually state outright that this book is about Sherlock Holmes and only deal in allusions and asides makes this book smack of pretension and alienates the reader. A book should service the story NOT the ego of the writer, and hence this book is a failure.

Finally being able to see beyond the veil of academic and writerly gimmickry you see that all it did was mask the problems of the story. The major problem is that this isn't an ode to Conan Doyle but more posturing by Chabon. The LEAST Chabon could have done is capture the essence of Holmes in the slightest. Instead this book seems to intentionally set out to be the exact opposite of all things Holmes and Conan Doyle. Conan Doyle is a writer that is only occasionally melodramatic when writing as Watson, but he is never superfluous. If he is writing as Holmes, as is the case in two of his short stories, the language is terse and to the point. The Final Solution, being in the waning days of Sherlock Holmes, would obviously be written from Holmes's POV, and therefore would necessitate Holmes's narration style. Yet here Chabon luxuriates in description and verbiage. The actual plot could be summed up by Holmes or Watson in a couple of sentences, but it's spun out for 131 pages! This wallowing in the unnecessary and insignificant might be a nice idyl for a writing exercise, but not for a story which suffers under these pretensions. Plus, I don't know if it's just me, but there's a reason Conan Doyle didn't write Holmes into his dotage, aside from being sick of writing him, and that's because no one wants to see the great and mighty struggling to get out of a chair. Yes it might be interesting if handled properly, like the recent film Mr. Holmes, but here it isn't handled properly or reverently like it should be. It's all just Chabon showing off. But what got under my skin more than anything was that while he peppers the book with allusions to Holmes's great works at the end Chabon doesn't understand Holmes. He got him so wrong. "The business of detection has for so many years been caught up with questions of remuneration and reward that although he was by now long beyond such concerns he felt, with surprising vigor, that the boy owed him the payment of a smile." Holmes rarely took any form of payment! I can think of one, maybe two times that entered into it, in ALL of his adventures. All SIXTY of them. As for a reward? He liberally gave all the credit away to different police officers. Gaw! Just SO WRONG!

The Final Problem could have been a sweet little story about a boy and his parrot, but the need to make the story ostensibly about Sherlock Holmes, though remember he's never directly named, derails the tale and drags it out. To make a book of only 131 pages seem overly long is a true talent that Chabon should be congratulated on. Instead of focusing on the relationship of the boy and his bird, we suffer through long reminiscences of what it is to be old and dying. Oh, and not just dying, but to die in an ignominious way. To die sprawled out in an inglorious way that would be very embarrassing for one's reputation, though technically you shouldn't care because, you know, you're dead. The reason I think The Final Solution would have been more successful concentrating on Linus is that you forge a connection with the boy. You never really make a connection to Holmes. Holmes is a character of wonder and magic, and to make him old and feeble, it stripes the character of what connection the reader had. Dwelling on his various daydreams of death doesn't help us connect either. There is only one time you feel a connection to Holmes and the man he was and that's when he journeys back to London in search of Linus's bird. London was the epicenter of Holmes's world. This is a city that bowed down to his greatness and the villains were in constant fear of him. Now London is no longer the place he rules but a place he no longer recognizes. With the onslaught of the Germans he expected to see the city in ashes, and one wonders if perhaps he actually wished this to be true. That London, without the great Sherlock Holmes, had ceased to exist. That it's very lifeblood no longer flowed because of his exodus. Instead there is destruction, but more then that, new buildings, new life, all the new that he doesn't know. He knew this city like the back of his hand, every alley and every bolthole. To see that the city moved on, changed while his knowledge didn't, is the first and only time in the book you feel what it's like to be Holmes, the pinnacle of the previous discarded century.

Going back to Linus and his parrot, I can not express how much a story concentrating only on the two of them would have succeeded. Their relationship is a connection between two souls. When you are young and form a connection to an animal something magical happens. It's not that you're just kindred spirits, you are each others soul mates. Chabon so eloquently describes this connection with the looks exchanged between the two, the way the boy mummers to his parrot and the way the parrot ruffles Linus's hair, that it's almost painful in it's beauty. I had this relationship once with my little cat Spot. We met when I was only eight and we were together for twenty-two years. He was my best friend, my confidant, my better half. He was everything and I see that relationship mirrored in this book. This is the heart and while to an extent it is also the driving force of the narrative, it's too often relegated to the sidelines to actually keep your interest. But to look at their relationship further, I can't help but think about how this bird is truly a service animal. The boy is effectively a mute and is therefore viewed as developmentally disabled by many of the people in the community where he lives. So much study has gone into the aid animals can give to children who are autistic or have learning disabilities, and here we have a story that shows the depth of these connections and how they work yet it is constantly pushed aside. The most interestingly narrated chapter in the book is when the parrot's POV is explored. Here we get more insight into his relationship with Linus, but again this is second fiddle to the importance of the crime committed. Chabon, I am totally calling you out. You set this up so well and had such an opportunity and you wasted it time and time again to indulge yourself and not serve the story or the characters. Get with it already. Edit, rewrite this and get back to me.

Yet the biggest flaw in the book has nothing to do with the story, it has to do with the illustrations. Jay Ryan created a memorable and unique cover, but his interior illustrations leave something to be desired. They feel unfinished and childish, which is the exact opposite of the story whose language is so polished it almost blinds you and is very adult in nature. Seriously, only an adult could have the vocabulary to get through this book not to mention the themes of aging, persecution, espionage, and murder. I am a graphic designer and have done many illustrations. Illustrations are different than regular drawings, they are there to accompany and add insight to the text. They REFLECT the text. Image and words in a symbiotic relationship that is balanced. Here it's not balanced. Stupid childish drawings that you could argue were to capture the childishness of Linus, but I refute that argument. Linus doesn't live in the world of a child and the things he's seen make him unique. Therefore dumbing down the illustrations doesn't enhance his viewpoint, it harms it. While the style of writing and the narrative annoyed me to no end, there is a beauty in the images that Chabon conjures up. There is a lushness in the text that is completely derailed by these technical and awkward images. This isn't how the words make this world appear. If anything these images are 100% the exact opposite of what I see in my mind's eye while reading this book. While most people will probably just flip to the next page ignoring the images, I can't. They are a stumbling block that brings down the book even lower in my estimations. Quite literally you start the book thinking it will be amazing, a five star tour de force. Then Holmes is introduced and mishandled, then the drawings start showing up, then this, then that, and you are left with a book that could have been something magical, but isn't. Not in the least.

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 0 comments  

Labels: Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, Bas Bleu, Endless Night, Illustration, Michael Chabon, Mr. Holmes, Novella, Parrots, Pretentious, Sherlock Holmes, Sherlocked, South Downs, Spot, Watson, WWII

I never really talk about why I started my blog sincerely. I will almost always give the true, though somewhat flippant answer, that it was to get free books, and in particular Lauren Willig's ARCs. So perhaps it's time to tell this story? After my semester from hell, which ended with me getting pneumonia, I was at loose ends. I was supposed to go to Canada for the New Year but was too sick, so I started playing around with the idea of a blog. I thought it would be really cool to have a blog titled "Crazy Random Happenstance" because of the line from Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog, though my blog would be entirely free of singing. Per dictates in place banning my vocalizations. Though I couldn't quite remember the quote "Crazy Random Happenstance" and instead used "Strange and Random Happenstance" which, if I'm honest, I like far more because crazy, well, I don't like all the connotations and I'm not pigeonholed as a Whedonverse blog then, despite the first post. I love you Joss, but seriously, not liking your recent work. So I made a blog and then school started and I forgot all about it. Then the semester ended and life was still stressful, just minus school. My cat was really sick, and well, really old if truth be told. I was in denial that he might not be around much longer and I needed a distraction. A blog was the answer. On May 19th one of my friends who had just started doing a knitting blog asked if I had thought of doing my own blog. I immediately wrote back: "sweet, I have blog I set up, just haven't started yet (with hopes of free books!) mine is called strange and random happenstance." Within the hour I had written my first post. By 10PM the next day my cat would be dead.

I remember every single moment of that last week with my cat, from watching the newest Brideshead Revisited adaptation to him on his death bed beating me up for water, he had an Evian obsession, and finally, starting my blog. I'm not trying to write the most depressing blog post ever here, what I'm trying to say is that my blog was fortuitously timed. Writing took my mind off losing Spot and also made me part of a community. Some of my best friends I have found through this online gathering of book addicts. The friendships I have forged with readers, writers, and reviewers filled a gaping wound in me. I also succeeded in getting free books. But just because that was my motive back in January when I haphazardly named a blog and parked it, doesn't mean that that is solely what I got out of it. Yes, I got free books, so my minor goal was accomplished. But I got so much more, I forged relationships with authors. I view Lauren Willig, George Mann, and Paul Magrs as dear friends. I know when I drop a line to them I'll get a response back. I also know that if I cold contact an author I admire that they'll be in touch, because I have the "power of the blog" backing me up. In this day and age when publishing is constantly in flux, when the continuation of the written word is in doubt, it's people like us bloggers working with authors to get the word out that makes publishing still a viable enterprise. Readers, reviewers, and authors have a symbiotic relationship, we all need each other more then ever to succeed in these uncertain times. My doing theme months and reviews of books from authors I love is the least I can do because of the hours of entertainment they gave me reading their works. It's been six years since my first post and I am sure that someday their might come a time when I write that "Omega" post, but until that day I'm going to be the best cheerleader there is for books, and especially for Lauren.

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 0 comments  

Labels: Alpha and Omega, An August Adieu, ARCs, Blog, Bloggers, Brideshead Revisited, Cats, Dr. Horrible, Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog, George Mann, Knitting, Lauren Willig, Paul Magrs, Spot

I don't remember when I finally bought The Secret History of the Pink Carnation. I had seen it on the front table of Borders for so long that I eventually was worn down by sheer exposure. I might not remember when I bought it, but when I first read it is forever ingrained on my memory. Think how often a book becomes entwined with the memory of first reading that book. The two become inseparable and that is where my cat comes in. Spot has been gone quite a few years now, he lived to the grand old age of twenty-two and I think in human terms that made him a crotchety dowager duchess whose will was law. If he had only know that certain dowager duchesses had palanquins to carry them about I think he would have put in an order for one. But as you can see from the picture above, at least he was an Anglophile through and through. If there was a chaise and four in a miniseries he would get worked up planing how to kill and eat the four horses. Yes, there were chittering sounds and many incidents of him actually attacking the TV. To get back to the time of this particular story...

At this time Spot was a spry nineteen year old going on twenty, and yes, when he was younger I did sing songs to him from The Sound of Music around his birthday. He had a bad tooth removed and there were complications which resulted in him having some surgery. For a few months he required round the clock supervision. In pure cat logic, instead of wanting to sleep in his comfy bed which was next to the couch, or on my lap, he decided that the faux British manhole cover doormat in the pantry was to be his new home. Therefore the uncomfortable floor next to said manhole cover became my new reading spot. But it was a magical reading spot. Because sitting there, protecting my cat, I fell into the world Lauren created with the Pink Carnation. I quickly devoured the first book and ran out to get The Masque of the Black Tulip. Followed very quickly by The Deception of the Emerald Ring. Quite shortly after that I started hitting up my publishing connections for an ARC of The Seduction of the Crimson Rose. No matter how many times I have read these initial volumes I always think of that first time. Uncomfortable on a cold vinyl floor, but surrounded by the love of my cat and a great story. If it wasn't for Lauren's books I wouldn't have this precious memory of time spent with my best friend who left me too soon. I will always be grateful to Lauren for this.

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 0 comments  

Labels: An August Adieu, Anglophile, British, Cats, Spot, The Deception of the Emerald Ring, The Masque of the Black Tulip, The Secret History of the Pink Carnation, The Sound of Music

The Story of Fester Cat by Paul Magrs
ARC Provided by the Publisher and the Author
Published by: Berkley Trade
Publication Date: November 4th, 2014
Format: Paperback, 304 Pages
Rating: ★★★★★
To Buy

Fester Cat had spent twelve years on the streets of Manchester, twice contemplating domesticity, but the last lady didn't understand him, she thought he was a girl! The indignity! Then Paul and Jeremy enter his life. They're the new couple in Fester's territory, even though they've been there about a year. There's something alluring and different about them, but most magical of all they know Fester's name! The Spanish lady thought he was a she and here's two guys who not only know he's a distinguished gentleman but that he answers to Fester! Ungow!

After a little time coming and going Fester decides that he shall adopt Paul and Jeremy and their lives together begin. Fester isn't just a furry family member but he helps the three of them become a family. Through rituals of turkey at Christmas and long summer days reading in the "Beach House" to singing and talking, they bond into a cohesive unit that is campy and cuddly and most of all filled with joyous everlasting love.

In March of 2013 my heart broke a little at the news that a certain tuxedo kitty was no longer in this world. Thirty-six days later I got a story in my inbox, The Story of Fester Cat. And I knew I couldn't read it. In a little over two weeks it would be four years since I had lost my tuxedo kitty, Spot. 1445 days and growing. This September Paul contacted me asking if I'd review the book for my blog. I said I was glad to, all the while wondering, but can I? I usually avoid reading books about animals like the plague. I can't take the fact that the book was written because their furry little story had come to an end.

I don't want excesses of unnecessary emotion and rainbow bridges, a sentiment that Fester himself would agree with I'm sure. I don't feel that it's cathartic or will help me heal, all I feel is the pain as fresh as the day I lost my little guy. But somehow this book was different. Yes, it did break my heart, I cried uncontrollably for awhile, but it also put my heart back together. In the two years I'd known Paul, Fester had become a part of my life, the daily pictures on Facebook of them working away at his computer or relaxing in the Beach House was a highlight of my day. The lose of a furry family member leaves a hole in your heart that you don't know what to do with, Paul filled his with Fester's song.

Fester's story is told in Fester's own unique voice, ungow! I'm not talking just about the conversational aspect, the vocal inflections that everyone who has known and loved a talkative cat knows about. The way they insinuate themselves into conversations with a mow here and a meep there. I'm talking about the inner voice made real in the narration of his story. All cat "owners" will tell you that their cat has a unique voice, I always imagined my Spot's voice as regal and somewhat sardonic, like Jeremy Irons.

Paul though has masterfully written this book in such a way that it feels he is channeling Fester. Fester is observant and witty and knows how to keep his humans in line and sticking to their routines. He is streetwise but also has a deeper understanding of life. His voice isn't just unique like some books have a unique narrator. Fester's voice attains a whole other level where it feels like it's destined to be classic, much like Eloise in the fabulous Kay Thompson series. You just read it and go, yes, this is Fester.

Reading The Story of Fester Cat you realize how important and personal a book this is. While in some regards as Paul says "It's like our little cat going out to meet the world!" But I think there's a whole deeper level, the level of Paul and Jeremy. If you have been lucky enough to read any of Paul's other books you will realize that Paul rather sneakily works himself into the stories. There's a bit of Paul in Robert in the Brenda and Effie series, then in Jack in 666 Charing Cross Road, and then there's Simon in the Iris Wildthyme series. You get this feeling that Paul has always wanted to be on an adventure and as a talented writer he has used these surrogates to insert himself into the narrative.

But for the first time he doesn't need a stand-in. This is Paul's life. There must be something so scary opening yourself up in such a way when for years you've had this separation. Not just showing a fictionalized version of yourself shown in the best light, but to show the good, the bad, the love, the heartbreak, the fights, the fusses, to show it all for everyone. This book is Paul laid bare. This is him, and Fester, and Jeremy. This is their song, full of love and heartbreak, but undeniably catchy. I can only hope that it will stick with you as the chorus and refrain play in your memory. Ungow!

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 0 comments  

Labels: 666 Charing Cross Road, Brenda and Effie, Cats, Eloise, Fester, Iris Wildthyme, Jeremy Irons, Kay Thompson, Manchester, Paul Magrs, Spot, The Story of Fester Cat, Tuxedo Cat, Ungow

The Story of Fester Cat by Paul Magrs
ARC Provided by the Publisher and the Author
Published by: Berkley Trade
Publication Date: November 4th, 2014
Format: Paperback, 304 Pages
Rating: ★★★★★
To Buy

Fester Cat had spent twelve years on the streets of Manchester, twice contemplating domesticity, but the last lady didn't understand him, she thought he was a girl! The indignity! Then Paul and Jeremy enter his life. They're the new couple in Fester's territory, even though they've been there about a year. There's something alluring and different about them, but most magical of all they know Fester's name! The Spanish lady thought he was a she and here's two guys who not only know he's a distinguished gentleman but that he answers to Fester! Ungow!

After a little time coming and going Fester decides that he shall adopt Paul and Jeremy and their lives together begin. Fester isn't just a furry family member but he helps the three of them become a family. Through rituals of turkey at Christmas and long summer days reading in the "Beach House" to singing and talking, they bond into a cohesive unit that is campy and cuddly and most of all filled with joyous everlasting love.

In March of 2013 my heart broke a little at the news that a certain tuxedo kitty was no longer in this world. Thirty-six days later I got a story in my inbox, The Story of Fester Cat. And I knew I couldn't read it. In a little over two weeks it would be four years since I had lost my tuxedo kitty, Spot. 1445 days and growing. This September Paul contacted me asking if I'd review the book for my blog. I said I was glad to, all the while wondering, but can I? I usually avoid reading books about animals like the plague. I can't take the fact that the book was written because their furry little story had come to an end.

I don't want excesses of unnecessary emotion and rainbow bridges, a sentiment that Fester himself would agree with I'm sure. I don't feel that it's cathartic or will help me heal, all I feel is the pain as fresh as the day I lost my little guy. But somehow this book was different. Yes, it did break my heart, I cried uncontrollably for awhile, but it also put my heart back together. In the two years I'd known Paul, Fester had become a part of my life, the daily pictures on Facebook of them working away at his computer or relaxing in the Beach House was a highlight of my day. The lose of a furry family member leaves a hole in your heart that you don't know what to do with, Paul filled his with Fester's song.

Fester's story is told in Fester's own unique voice, ungow! I'm not talking just about the conversational aspect, the vocal inflections that everyone who has known and loved a talkative cat knows about. The way they insinuate themselves into conversations with a mow here and a meep there. I'm talking about the inner voice made real in the narration of his story. All cat "owners" will tell you that their cat has a unique voice, I always imagined my Spot's voice as regal and somewhat sardonic, like Jeremy Irons.

Paul though has masterfully written this book in such a way that it feels he is channeling Fester. Fester is observant and witty and knows how to keep his humans in line and sticking to their routines. He is streetwise but also has a deeper understanding of life. His voice isn't just unique like some books have a unique narrator. Fester's voice attains a whole other level where it feels like it's destined to be classic, much like Eloise in the fabulous Kay Thompson series. You just read it and go, yes, this is Fester.

Reading The Story of Fester Cat you realize how important and personal a book this is. While in some regards as Paul says "It's like our little cat going out to meet the world!" But I think there's a whole deeper level, the level of Paul and Jeremy. If you have been lucky enough to read any of Paul's other books you will realize that Paul rather sneakily works himself into the stories. There's a bit of Paul in Robert in the Brenda and Effie series, then in Jack in 666 Charing Cross Road, and then there's Simon in the Iris Wildthyme series. You get this feeling that Paul has always wanted to be on an adventure and as a talented writer he has used these surrogates to insert himself into the narrative.

But for the first time he doesn't need a stand-in. This is Paul's life. There must be something so scary opening yourself up in such a way when for years you've had this separation. Not just showing a fictionalized version of yourself shown in the best light, but to show the good, the bad, the love, the heartbreak, the fights, the fusses, to show it all for everyone. This book is Paul laid bare. This is him, and Fester, and Jeremy. This is their song, full of love and heartbreak, but undeniably catchy. I can only hope that it will stick with you as the chorus and refrain play in your memory. Ungow!

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 3 comments  

Labels: 666 Charing Cross Road, Brenda and Effie, Cats, Eloise, Fester, Iris Wildthyme, Jeremy Irons, Kay Thompson, Manchester, Paul Magrs, Spot, The Story of Fester Cat, Tuxedo Cat, Ungow

For those who've followed my blog for awhile, you may know firstly of my love of cats and secondly of my love of the works of Paul Magrs. Back in October I did a little interview with him for Magrs Month and we talked about his lovely tuxedo cat Fester. Today it is extremely sad for me to say that Fester has passed. I myself was graced with the love of a tuxedo kitty for 22 years. We grew up together and in the four years since I have lost him not a day goes by where I don't miss him. Fester and his beautiful and extremely photogenic face have helped everyday to easy my pain a little and I cannot imagine what Paul and his partner Jeremy are feeling at this moment.

My heart goes out to them, and I hope they know how much Fester gave to all of us who are their friends. He will be missed everyday by me, just as my Spotty is. Today is now International Ungow Day! Long live the memory of Fester!

Posted by Miss Eliza at 4:35 PM 0 comments  

Labels: Cats, Fester, Paul Magrs, Spot

Yesterday I was reminded of how much our furry little friends mean to us. It's been more than two years since I lost my little guy. It still hurts everyday. It's a dull pain, not the sharp keen pain of a year ago, it's getting better all the time, as The Beatles would say. But I know it will never go away, it never should. I never dream of him, sometimes I wish I did. But my Dad said it's because he's still a part of my life that I don't need to dream about him because he's with me everyday, as he was for the 22 years we had together. I know this is true. And my friend who lost his dear dog yesterday must now go through what I have. At least I can say that it does get better, but more importantly, that you will never forget how much he meant to you. He'll always be there.

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 0 comments  

Labels: Spot

I lost my little kitty cat. He was twenty two and I miss him every single day, even though I know I was blessed to be with him as long as I was. Right now I'm in Arkansas celebrating my friend Sarah's wedding and meeting my other friends little daughter for the first time. So there's new life and new hope everyday. I'm thinking about getting a new kitty... maybe... but there are still many days I cry and so many days I hurt. Now at least I'm remembering the wonderful things about Spot versus just the emptiness I feel. The whirring sounds he made and how if you hugged him just right he sounded like a squeezey toy. I'm also starting to dream of him watching over me, which is nice, except in all he wants is for me to feed him. I'm glad that on such a hard day I am surrounded by all those I love. Maybe I'll tell them why I might be a little withdrawn... maybe I'll just try to carry on like any other day... or maybe they'll just be there for me like they always are. My friend Sarah had me typesetting some quotes for her wedding, and this one I felt was perfect, for today and always:

Posted by Miss Eliza at 10:00 PM 3 comments  

Labels: Calvin, Calvin and Hobbes, Sarah, Spot, Weddings

Today marks the day I've been away from my cat the longest, and in true macabre Charles Addams fashion, I thought I'd do a little something about the history of mourning. A few years ago I was in New York around the time of Halloween. I had always wanted to go to the Merchant House Museum, and yes, mainly to pretend I was in Upstairs Downstairs, seeing as the house still stands as it was back in the 19th century. But what was fortuitous was that for Halloween the house had an exhibit up on the traditions surrounding mourning in Victorian society. Because of Queen Victoria being in mourning for 40 years the Victorians developed some truly fascinating customs surrounding death, from proper behavior for women and men to clothing and even to bee keeping.

The behaviors that the bereaved were expected to participate in were delineated by your sex. Men only had to be in mourning a short amount of time, literally weeks with just a black crepe armband, so that they go off and marry again so their children wouldn't be motherless and they wouldn't be lonely. Whereas women were expected to be in mourning for two years! The first year and a day, they were in "full mourning" where you weren't allowed to mix in society and wore only black without ornamentation, the next nine months, called "second mourning," you were allowed some jewelry. The final three months you were in "half mourning" and could switch up your clothing with a little lavender and go round to your friends house and a few gatherings deemed socially appropriate. Of course this two years in mourning lead to a great demand for nice and fashionable widow's weeds, because if you are bereaved, at least look good. Also some women, like Victoria, chose to stay in mourning the rest of their lives, and what's the point of that if your clothes are hideous.

"Telling the Bees" is a tradition that is still practiced by some bee keeper's today. You had to tell your bees of the death immediately upon the passing of a family member. Sometimes there were elaborate bells you chimed as you walked out to the hives, but the important thing was that you went to them and whispered the name of the dead to them, and then tied a piece of black ribbon around the hive. If you did not do this the bees would swarm and leave. Also, oddly enough, this has been documented to happen.

Other random, bizarre and disturbing facts of the day:

There were professional mourners, those provided by the undertaker to stand about and add an air of dignity. I believe Monty Python parodied this quite well.

If you were a suicide you were to be buried at a cross roads with a stake through your heart, to stop your ghost from wondering, but smacks of vampirism to me.

Who people were depended on length of mourning, sister, brother or child. You had to mourn children the least, probably due to infant mortality of the day, because then you might be in constant mourning.

People had a great fear of being buried alive, due in fact to several real incidences. In supposedly comes the inventor Bateson. Bateson is said to have invented a belfry, that was a small bell on the top of a coffin which had a rope attached to the deceased hand, so if you were in fact still alive, just go a ring it and up you come. There is a funny scene in the movie The Great Train Robbery dealing with this.

Corpses for medical research did not legally exist at this time and the "Resurrection Men" came in to fill the void. For two guineas a cadaver of a recently deceased person could be "obtained". If you were caught exhuming a body the punishment was seven years transportation. But if the other person on your person didn't have any clothes on you were usually let off because they didn't think you'd dug them up or were apparently smart enough to just leave the clothes behind. The movie The Doctor and the Devils written by Dylan Thomas deals with this.

Oh and lets not forget photography of the day! People rarely had money to spend on pictures, so when a loved one died, they usually spent money on a picture to remember them by. So yes, those are dead people in the pictures with your ancestors. Occasionally called Post Mortum Photographs.


For more interesting information of this time period, check out the book What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew: From Fox Hunting to Whist - The Facts of Daily Life in 19th-Century England by Daniel Pool

Posted by Miss Eliza at 2:17 AM 0 comments  

Labels: Charles Addams, Charles Dickens, Daniel Pool, Jane Austen, Merchant House Museum, Monty Python, Mourning, Queen Victoria, Spot, The Doctor and the Devils, The Great Train Robbery

On Wednesday my kitty died after being with me for 22 years. I can't really talk about it cause it hurts, he was my best friend since I was in 3rd grade. Spot was funny and sweet and would always make a whirring sound when he saw me. He always wanted to be the center of attention and as I would say, rightfully so. He loved rolling in dirt till his black fur was gray. Sadly he was directionally challenged and could not find his way home and would often get lost, many times on neighbors roofs and once on a chimney. He never liked to have me out of his sight and when he was still an outdoor cat this led to many days where I got out of school before everyone else cause he was blocking the door waiting for me. He was obsessed with rabbits and horses, though I have a feeling he thought that horses were bit-mice-sized. He will never be forgotten, and that collie in our neighborhood should watch out cause I'm keeping an eye on him for Spot.

Posted by Miss Eliza at 4:35 PM 2 comments  

Labels: Spot