This is what happens when I don’t have an upcoming release…

you get to listen to me ramble…

When we were down in L.A., driving on a four-lane roadway, not a freeway, this guy in a lamborghini pulled up next to us and revved his engine.  When the light turned green, he took off with a deafening roar for all of fifty yards before he had to slam on the brakes at another red light.  My husband’s words – “Geez!  Grow a penis, dude!“   I agree.  We were driving our new Honda Civic Hybrid and I know from personal experience what kind of junk is under the hood…um…nice…big…environmentally friendly…junk.  I’m not impressed by a guy and his muscle car.  Kids, if you’re reading this…I’ll pay for your therapy, scout’s honor.

So the weekend was fun – my husband and his two brothers and his nephew and his five cousins – all guys because I gave birth to the only girls in the family – talked about the implications of hand size, foot size, and sports.  We played Oh Shit,  a great card game, while debating whether or not to play Spoons – which we decided to forgo because of the way the game inevitably deteriorates into a violent free-for-all and I’m always the one to get mauled.

One of my husband’s cousins recommended a couple books – got the first one - The Elementary Particles, by Michel Houellebeco.  The cousin described it as a perverse book about a man born covered with clitoral tissue.  Sound interesting?  He told me not to hold it against him if I hate it.  I don’t hate it…I like it!

“This is the story of two half-brothers abandoned by a mother who gave herself fully to the drugged-out free-love world of the sixties.  Bruno, overweight and a failure at everything, is himself a raucously promiscuous hedonist, while Michel, his younger brother, is an emotionally dead molecular biologist wholly immersed in the solitude of his work.  Each is ultimately offered a final chance at genuine love, and what unfolds is an endlessly unpredictable and provocative tale that speaks to the possible redemption of the human condition.”

My husband’s cousin also recommended Herland, a utopian novel written in 1915 by a woman, Charlotte Perkins Gilman.  Ordered!  Can’t wait!

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