I am shocked and apologetic that I forgot to review this last month. Perhaps I forgot because I read it at the very beginning of the month - or perhaps my mind was going "wub wub wub" from having seen Gaiman/McKeen's movie MirrorMask. SEE IT IF YOU CAN! Regardless...

I should state for the record that Gaiman's American Gods is one of the 10 best books I have read. Rich and dense and intense and wonderful. Just right in every way. Anansi Boys is set in the same universe, though the only character from American Gods to appear is Mr. Nancy (the spider god) whose death starts the series of events covered in the books. As I started the book, I found myself feeling vaguely disappointed, though I was enjoying the plot immensely. When I thought about it, I realized that I had been expecting another American Gods. However, the size of the book should have tipped me off before I even started.

Unlike AG, there are no side stories or layers of mythology to plump up the book. Instead, the plot revolves tightly around Fat Charlie, Mr. Nancy's son. Like other characters in Gaiman's world (Neverwhere), he wants nothing more than a normal life with no surprises. His early life is marred by humiliation at the hands of his crazy, lying, teasing father. Yet, as Charlie tries to cling to his normal life (as far removed from his father's as possible), the fantastic other keeps intruding, dragging him into unreal and dangerous territory. And in the end, once normalcy is won, it doesn't seem to be such a glittering prize after all. Even if you are not a fantasy fan, I think you will enjoy this book simply for the lovely picture of the everyday world being broken apart when the unthinkable settles into your guest room and brings his own waterfall.

For regular NPR listeners, Keiller's poem selections will be familiar. If not, perhaps you will remember the (minor) flap in the news earlier this year when Kansas radio station wanted to pull Keiller's 5 minute poetry spot because a poem he read had the word breast in it. Yes, apparently the anatomy of 51% of the population is offensive to Kansas. (insert your Kansas dig here) He expressed delight that after 40 some years in radio he finally was interesting enough to censor - albeit shortly and by a bunch of nut jobs.

Never a great fan of poetry, I still enjoyed these collections greatly. These are not hard poems. They don't require you to have read English lit at Oxford or to be able to speak olde Englishe. Nor do they span hundreds of pages, warbling on about woe, despair, dying Ophelia or the terrible weight of love. The poems he has selected are each wonderful, complete gems - a crystal clear thought and scene in a few stanzas. Topics range from the biggies - death, love, old age, to silly limericks and odes to Mac computers and soda crackers. These are lovely books to have sitting about to dip into a few pages at a time. And now I can even say I have read Bukowski.

"Such a day, rum all out - our company somewhat sober, a damnedd confusion amongst us! Rogues a plotting - great talk of separation. So I looked sharp for a prize - such a day took one, with a great deal of liquor on board; so kept the company hot, damnedd hot, then all things went well again" - Blackbeard (Edward Teach)

First published in 1724, this book was an instant smash hit. Numerous editions followed, jam packed with lurid tales of murder, robbery, riches beyond measure and barbarism. Virtually any pirate story you have read or seen has details gleaned from this book. The dead man's chest, pirate brotherhood and code of conduct, Blackbeard, Mistress Anne Bonney, pirates and captains being buried at sea in their fine red overcoats and diamond jewelry are all here. The really amazing bit, though, is that these stories appear to be true.

At its publication, and for centuries after, readers assumed they were the works of overheated imagination. However, through careful searches of records, historians have found the credible evidence in newspaper, letters and court documents to verify most of the stories in this book.

The only real mystery left, is who "Captain Charles Johnson" was. No records of the time indicate a captain of the name. Various theories pin the writing on authors and playwrights of the time - including Daniel Defoe - though this theory has been disproven.

The writing style itself is oddly uneven. The bulk of the text is a unemotional account of the deeds of the pirates, recounted in a legalistic manner - backed by numerous quotes from court records and newspaper accounts of the trials. However, it is clear that the author is no stranger to the sea. Occasional comments like pirates who had been pardoned by the king soon returning to their old ways like "dogs returning to vomit" add a certain colorfulness to the narratives. Occasionally, the author will break of mid-description to give a short history of an Island or coast that the pirates inhabited. These 2-3 page commentaries give a description of the vegetation, peoples, animals and weather equal to any 8th grade geography report. The language is a bit rough going in places, but read an account or two of your favorite villains just for fun.

I finally got my paws on this book via interlibrary loan. I had seen the cover in a photography magazine and was intrigued by the cover image - a man in a baggy jumper, balaclava and walrus mustache holding two toy airplanes on a junk and snow covered deck. And you know what? I still have no idea who he is or what he is doing, because the book only provides explanations of about half the images. But then again, sometimes that's half the fun with photography books. Sifting through images of the righteous, downtrodden, dreamers and the deserted you can create your own stories and ideas. Sometimes the truth, such as it is, can be a real let-down.

The book itself is a collection of images loosely held together by their ties to the Mississippi river. As though you are a traveler wandering aimlessly down the river - a later day Mark Twain - the photographer gives an unbiased view of the people and places - snowy convenience stores, convicts on work detail, junk filled marshes, fishermen, homemade shrines and street preachers. What a strange and fascinating country we live in.

Time and time again, I check this book out of the library. There is something incomprehensively mind-boggling about this book. Perhaps it's the graphic designer in me, but the scope of work involved in this book just makes me marvel at the stupid things humanity will do. The book is as its title describes - a collection of very boring postcards from the late 40s-70s.

But here is the bit that gets me. Someone, somewhere had to say "You know Ma, what we should do is create a postcard of the air traffic control tower at Waterloo Iowa/The Skyline Motor Inn in Cody Wyoming/'The colorful rug near the entrant of the national office of the American Baptists Churches, Valley Forge Interchange, PA.'" But then, NO ONE stopped this boob. Instead, they forged ahead. They hired a photographer, who, in all likelihood took more than one shot of the chosen scene. They then needed to sift through the shots to find the BEST view of "The beautiful and spacious dining room of the Wesleyan Retirement Home in Georgetown, TX" or "The Virginian Restaurant, Williamsburg, Virginia (with it's large spaghetti pizza sign)". Now, after the perfect picture is chosen, this postcard must be designed and created by a graphic design. As these cards were made pre-computers, some poor bastard had to hand lay out the type and image, making sure there are no typos in "Arial view of the twin bridges spanning the Cuyahoga River Valley and the Ohio Canal." Finally, this masterpiece must be sent to a printer, who spent time choosing a stock, adjusting colors to get just the right tan for the road of the Pennsylvanian Turnpike near Downingtown PA. Once printed (and this again boggles the mind) people have to take these postcards and post them to someone. And they have! Nothing says "I'm thinking of you" than a postcard from the Pike View Motel in Strongsville Ohio.

And yet, the postcards themselves are fascinating. They are mundane in the extreme. But at the same time, they still have a very strong sense of place that you don't get with shots of the Parthenon, Disneyland or the Sears Tower. Looking at a picture of the Pine Nuche Pa-Rasa Hotel on Colorado Highway 172 in Ignacio Colorado, I feel like I've been there. Anyone who has road-tripped the highways of the US will recognize the seedy chipped stucco building with its garish carpet, no different from a hundred other cheap motels. I can smell the over chlorinated pool at the Kingman Travel Lodge in Kingman Arizona, the mold and stale cigarette smoke in the Links Motel, Almeda CA hotel room and the burnt coffee and French fries at the Howard Johnson's Dining Rom, Pennsylvania Turnpike. They are not wonderful sites, nor are they truly awful. They just ...are.

Personally, I can't wait to get my hands on Boring German Postcards.

Penny's book is not as much as a non-fiction account your current society as much as a very well-researched rant. Her premise is that our society rests on a base of bright, shiny gossamer thin bullshit. She differentiates "bullshit" and "lies" by stating the liars still know the truth and care enough about it that they are trying to obfuscate around it. Bullshitters just don't care. Whatever works for them at the moment will do. Our economy and government are castles in the sky, created by the fuming puffs of meaningless hot-air emitted from politicians, PR firms, advertisers and CEOs. For all the words we hear, very few have any depth or real meaning.

Now, none of this is any news to me, nor I doubt to you. However, Penny's writing style is what makes this book so delightful. No calm and journalistic phraseology here, no sirree bob. She rips into our culture with a language born of Gen-X, television and a society of distrustful cynics.

"When I was rooting around for exemplary Republicans, and began looking at DeLay, I liked him for a number of reasons. He and all the lesser Tom Delays, who share his Christ-and-Mammon creed but lack his diabolical skills, are loving proof that I am not paranoid. My most tinfoil-hatted fantasies pale in comparison to the things right-wing radical like Delay and his ilk actually say and do."

And for you SNC grads, there's even a chapter entitled "painting the lawn green."