By New Times Staff
By Kathleen Vanesian
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Chris Packham
By Robrt L. Pela
By Claire Lawton
By New Times Staff
By Claire Lawton
Although I played with the idea of reading this summer, I just don't think it's going to work out.
I know it's what all my friends are doing; right about now, I bet every one of them is scanning the new-release tables at brightly lit bookstores, measuring up one brightly colored clever cover against the one next to it. With a chocolate muffin in one hand, they're leaving rich brown smudges on all books that look interesting, relate in any way to liquor, or have Tim Gunn on the cover.
But when I thought about it, I realized all I really wanted to do this summer was sit outside and eat chips and dip. That's my idea of a good time, frankly, and it requires a great deal of focus. The last time I lost my concentration whilst feeding, I walked around with a chunk of refried beans on my boob until it was jammie time because some people apparently felt that the inappropriate placing of a pinto bean may have been intentional on my part, perhaps in hopes of attracting a man, a baby, or a reputable dry cleaner.
Chips and dip require all hands on deck, and if I have one of those hands on a book, chances are good to excellent that I will grow a bean nipple or at least look homeless by the end of the page. This is especially true if the book happens to be Wicked, because I had just bought tickets to the show and thought I needed to prep by reading it. It was all going well until I got to the munchkin/animal orgy, where a little guy goes all cellie on a lion and my mug of hot hot hot coffee completely missed my mouth and hit my neck instead.
I am here to tell you that you that 1) there's nothing like being past 30 and having cashiers look at you like you have a hickey; 2) the scar healed, but the image of the scene still burns; 3) I lived in fear for three months that my husband would realize I spent our weekly grocery allowance on a pocket-size fetish show.
So, no. Reading is out. Snacking takes precedence. No reading this summer.
And aside from that, reading can make you blind if you do it too much. It's totally true. Last summer I was outside reading Notes from the Underwire by child star Quinn Cummings (yes, I swear. She wrote a book and it was hilarious) when I looked up and all of a sudden, everything went white. Initially I thought, "I knew I put too much salt on my lunch! Sandwiches don't need salt! They don't need it!" But then, after I cried "Help!" several times and no one answered, even though the windows were open, my sight gradually returned to the point that I thought could see my husband's shadow staring at me from the kitchen window. I returned to reading the book after making sure I had a pulse, looked back to the window, and blindness struck again.
"Dammit!" I said. "How many strokes can one person have in a day? It was just a little salt! It's not like I ate a Lean Cuisine! Plus I had a vegetable yesterday!"
Until I realized that I was book blind. Scientifically, I don't know the specifics of it (although I once watched a NOVA all the way through and didn't wake up with drool on my cheek), but armed with an hour's worth of NOVA knowledge, I theorize that the rays of the sun reflect off the book and then char your retinas like a steak on a grill, complete with a photo negative imprinted on the back of your lids.
And I don't want that. I mean, I enjoyed the book very much, but the last thing I want to do is read the same page of Quinn Cumming's book every night before I go to sleep because it's been branded there for foolishly believing that books and nature went hand in hand. Maybe I'd be better off with an iPad, but truthfully, I see what a grease trap my iPhone is and I hate myself after each time my French fry of a cheek leaves a rainbow effect on the screen. No way am I going large with that oil spill. I'd have to keep a bottle of Dawn in my purse at all times.
These were all things I was telling my friend Sebastiane on the afternoon we had just returned from seeing Wicked, and she asked me what I was planning on reading this summer.
"Nothing," I answered briskly, then jumped up to run to my bookshelf. "Do you know people thought I had a bean nipple? But you have to read If You Were Here by Jen Lancaster. I just got an advance copy. It's awesome."
I found the galley and handed it to her.
"So you're not reading anything?" my friend questioned suspiciously. "At all?"
"No, not one book," I confirmed, pulling another book off of the shelf and brought it over. "Here's Celia Rivenbark's You Don't Sweat Much for a Fat Girl. You'll love it. But don't take that the wrong way. And here is the one I was telling you by Quinn Cummings."