A Page-Turner for All Seasons

I have a complicated relationship with reading that I think a number of people can relate to. Simply put, I blame school and I blame movies. The latter is straightforward enough. I grew up in a golden age of cinema: Star Wars, Indiana Jones, Back to the Future, The Princess Bride, Big, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Ghostbusters, Short Circuit, The Goonies, Labyrinth, and too many others to name. These movies were every bit as deep and thematically complex as any book, and all I had to do was push Play on the VCR. As for school, bear in mind that I’m not mad, only frustrated. The biggest problem is on my end; I never got the hang of speed reading. I figured, if someone wrote all this, the least I can do is read all of this. When you’re reading on your own, who cares? With school, however, not only are you expected to read the book within a timeframe, you’re also going to be quizzed on it. Therein lay the problem, you want to get through the book quickly, but you’ve got to retain as much detail as possible, otherwise you won’t do so well on the assignment. It’s simply a skill I never got to develop properly. Some people got it. I didn’t.

In recent years, I feel I’ve gotten a little better at it, and have been able to polish off some books fairly quickly. There’s a caveat to this, however, that the book is between 200-300 pages or, according to its audiobook counterpart, able to be read in 8-10 hours maximum. Even if I only read on weekends, that’s a book a month at my slowest.

When I was gifted an audiobook of Project Hail Mary, I made an exception (and I'll probably make a few more exceptions that I'll talk about later). It’s 16 hours, but there’s a twist. The book switches between the present day plot and a past flashback. It’s rather like reading two books at the same time, which is a surprisingly good way to stay engaged with a plot that might otherwise drag. That may sound like the problem is with my attention span, and that’s fair. Some stories take more telling than others, and a tighter plot doesn’t necessarily make for a better book. 

Someone on social media (I can’t find where now) was talking about the state of television, specifically streaming shows, how there’s so few episodes per season and we have to wait sometimes several years for the next season. They went on to elaborate that sometimes a show would just have an episode in which nothing happens and that this is becoming a lost art. These are sometimes called Bottle Episodes, depending on who you ask. A more cynical person would call them Filler. Bottle Episodes are designed to be self-contained and usually intended to give audiences a breather between longer or more significant plot points. They’re typically confined to a single location and are often more dialogue-heavy than a standard episode. Reasons for a Bottle Episode will, once again, depend on who you ask. Writers like and will vehemently defend them because it's a chance to flesh out their characters. They're also typically born of necessity, like a show going over budget on an earlier or upcoming episode. 

Here’s the thing about streaming versus traditional television regarding filler: There are no time slots to fill anymore. I was thinking about this when finishing off season two of My Adventures with Superman. I never really got into any of the Superman comics growing up, but when it comes to the Man of Steel’s other media appearances, I’m always curious to see how it works out. With My Adventures with Superman, every episode was an absolute banger, not a single moment wasted, not one episode that could be written off as filler. Between the two seasons, the total number of episodes is 20, the first half in 2023 and the second half in 2024 (as of this writing, the third season is about two weeks away). That got me thinking about that old Lois and Clark series from the 90’s, the one with Dean Cain and Teri Hatcher. That was a show that felt like it was on forever. When I looked it up, I found it was only four seasons spanning 1993 to 1997, but each season was 22 episodes. Do you remember all of them? I sure don’t. Of course, it’s hardly fair to compare a live-action superhero show from the mid-90’s to a modern animated program nearly 30 years apart; animation is expensive and therefore doesn’t have time for filler. Still, when you’re bringing Superman to the small screen, maybe quality should take precedent over quantity. Sure, watching Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter for the Daily Planet, try to balance is his secret identity with his relationship with Lois is part of the mythos, but peppering in a few breakable sets and props isn’t exactly making the most of said mythos.

As for the time between seasons, I can’t help but suggest to these impatient viewers… maybe read some books. You’ve got time. 

Filling a Manuscription

This is a handmade book my roommate got for me some years ago. It's been sitting in a cloth bag in a drawer for most of that time, much to her chagrin. I explain in increasing anguish each and every time she asks about the solitary confinement that it's simply too precious for my damn chicken scratch. It's a drastic character flaw I cover up by using an adopted shorthand I'm very hesitant to explain to people lest they find out I'm writing dirty limericks about them while we're waiting for meetings to start or for food to arrive. That's actually a lie; They're haikus. Okay, fine, that's a lie too. I'm writing about how nice they are, nothing but the nicest niceness that ever been niced, can we please move on? Anyway, I did eventually take the book out of its t-shirt material and drawstring prison and begin… something, though I'm going to change the chicken scra—script for this one just to further the Voynich Manuscript aesthetic I'm going for. It may mean blacking out the first page, but supposedly the Mona Lisa is painted over something else that DaVinci wasn't happy with. Speaking of unknowns, I only found out literally a month ago she's wearing a veil. It's that thin horizontal line right below her hairline. I don't believe it adds to any mystery or awe of the piece, merely an observation. On the whole and especially in this particular day and age, I think Munch's The Scream is more deserving to be where she is now in the Louvre, but I'm not a museum curator or an art critic, just an asshole with an opinion. Oh, but I repeat myself, 2020 jokes are becoming old hat already, and we're getting off topic.

Speaking of everyday occurrences, paintings, and being off-topic, here's a kind of book you don't see everyday:

It's been cropping up on my Instagram feed as part of an Etsy ad. It's a thousand-page handmade leather book with a moon theme, available in a handful of colors and 2 sizes, your typical 8.5x11in variety and a 9x12in version because masochism is a thing. Speaking of being judgmental about other people's obsessions, I love this thing. I love that it is almost thicker than it is wide. I love that it looks like I could use it as the perfect if near-lethal retort to, "Stick and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." I love how cartoonish its proportions are despite being a practical object you can use for its intended purpose aside from blunt instrument/settler of arguments. Put a few layers of oily makeup and a thin, barely-noticeable veil on it, I'll marry it. Of course, it would be a small and simple ceremony with a BYOB kind of reception because it's 800 dollars… for the smaller version.

The moral of the story is if you're having reservations about writing in a handmade book someone got you as a present because it's simply too beautiful, just look up handmade journals on Etsy and stop being a big blubbering baby about it.

In the wise words of Ron White, I told you that story to tell you this one.

Along with a full encyclopedia (World Book, 1987) and a handful of National Geographic magazines (the only magazine that looks good en masse on a bookshelf), my family had a dictionary, one of those ginormous ones that you genuinely should not put on a shelf as it will compromise the entire structural integrity of the bookshelf and whatever wall it's up against. I think my Mom still has it. We kept it on a lectern, a simple little stand that holds the book open and at an angle so it's easier to lean in and pore over its pages pondering the proper praise… phrase… to say… to someone… who may or may not be challenging you to hospitalize them. Anyway, many a year ago (you'll work out how many in a moment) this anything but easy to move easel was in our living room. We had to move it there from the TV room where the bookshelf was in order to comply with building codes.

On at least 2 separate occasions, my brother would have friends over and they'd all be chilling out in the living room enjoying each other's company, as we all had no choice but to do before smartphones and tablets came along. Besides, the N64 was in the other room and it would be too early in the evening for Mario Kart to show you who your real friends were. At some point, someone would look over to the easel and ask, "Is that really a dictionary?" I suppose they thought it was maybe one of those family Bibles or illustrated editions of Lord of the Rings rather than the kind of dictionary you typically only see in school libraries. My brother would confidently answer, "Yes. Yes, it is." A few exchanges of "No way!" and "Way!" later, as was fashionable at the time before emojis ruined everything, the remainder of the evening would be spent looking up words and, if they were lucky, finding out not only every possible meaning it could carry, but the history of how it came to be.

In the words of a Bishop I once met, "If you really want to stick it to someone, tell them how 'nice' you think they are." If nothing else, it's a good way to tell if they have a comically large dictionary at home, and whether or not you have to bring your own hard hat when you visit.

… Ah, shit.