Books, Myself

Book Meme, a few more questions answered

The first part is here. These questions come from a comment that Amulya left on the post.

1. What was the last book you gifted someone?

I’ll go with three – I gave Craig Thompson’s Habibi to a friend on her birthday last year. I was surprised to find out that she had not read any of Thompson’s books, and I sort of knew she would love it. She did. So did her mom.

I gave another friend Blankets. That was because I met her in winter, and Blankets is a perfect winter book. I believe she liked it as well, though she was a little depressed.

I am supposed to send out a signed copy of Grant Morrison’s Super Gods this week, for a friend, but I have a bad feeling he may not receive it in time, so I may have to find another way to send it.

2. Conversely, what was the last book you were gifted?

On my birthday, I received a book called Erotic Comics Vol 2, by Tim Pilcher and a Romanian graphic novel called Year of the Pioneer, by Andreea Chirica. Also, the first three volumes of XIII, a graphic novel, The City of Shifting Waters by Mezieres/Christin and The Yellow M by Edgar P Jacobs.

(That’s five.)

(But let me talk about one of them.)

The book on Erotic Comics, I first saw it, the same copy, in Carturesti, Iulius Mall, Cluj in 2009. I flipped through it, wanted to buy it, but I was out of luggage space and did not want to spend any more money either. Saw it again in 2010, but I was on a book-buying hiatus. Carturesti was closed when I went there in early 2011. My friends bought it for me because they know me and were fairly sure I would like it – they were right. And I know it’s the same copy because the people at the store high-fived each other when somebody finally bought the dang thing instead of flipping through the pages. Life works in strange and mysterious ways.

3. What is your constant go-to book? Either as a fix/soul recharge?

I’ve found that I end up reading Preacher and Sandman very frequently, maybe once a year or so. Preacher reads like a beautiful love story with dollops of anti-religion and profanity thrown in. Sandman reminds me every single time that I have so much to read, and much to learn.

The Count of Monte Cristo, because the most perfect story about revenge makes for a dish that never gets cold.

The Mahabharata, in different forms, versions and retellings. Hard to believe how timeless this book is, and how fresh it always feels with every reading.

4. Name one, just one.. Okay, three books that made you tear up.

Ashok Banker’s writing makes me want to tear up his books, but I guess that’s not what you’re referring to. Heh.

Ok fine. A lot of books make me tear up, actually. Why, just reading Hunger Games the other day brought me on the verge of tears at one specific point. Off the top of my head: Oscar Wilde’s Happy Prince. Ian McEwan’s Atonement. The ending of Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials, Garth Ennis’s Hitman and Koike/Kojima’s Lone Wolf and Cub. One specific chapter in the seventh Harry Potter book. A stupid coming-of-age book called Summer of 42 by Herman Raucher. Olga Perovskaya’s Kids and Cubs made me weep bitter tears at age 14, and just thinking about it makes me melancholy now. This is Too Much Information, I am sorry.

5. What is the most embarrassing book you are in possession of?

A first edition hardcover of Michael Crichton’s The Lost World. It’s embarrassing because I paid a shitload of money to buy it when it came out, thinking that it will be a “collector’s item”. 350 Rs, I think, an insane amount of money for someone in Class 10, and I still cringe at the number of excuses I gave myself when coughing up the money at the counter.

I did not even like reading the fucking thing.

6. Say there was only one library that existed in the world, with every single book ever written – and it burnt down, which three books would you save for mankind?

Ugh. I should not answer this. My brain shuts down with scenarios like this, and I cannot think of the answers right away. Even if I answer them now, somehow, tomorrow morning I’ll wake up and curse myself for not choosing that instead of this. Also, I have a feeling that I will select these books based on the assumption that I have to decide what knowledge has to be carried forward in a world sans learning, and I am not sure if that was your intent.

But ok, I will play.

The collected works of William Shakespeare. Such a world will need entertainment, comedies, drama, dramedies, tearjerkers. No one better than the Bard.

A Science book. The Origin of Species, off the top of my head, just because it has a lot of answers that can bitch-slap religious nutjobs.

A book about books. Maybe Chip Kidd’s Volume One, which makes you ache inside and long to touch a physical book.

For the record, I hate this question.

7. Ever made friends in a bookshop?

Yes. A specific one that has lasted – I saw a guy in Best Book Stall, Hyderabad who had a pile of comics to sell. Asian-looking, brusque, speaking Hyderabadi Hindi like a pro. At one point, Ahmed sir, the proprietor just stood aside and let the two of us decide which ones I was buying directly off him, and which ones he would ultimately put for display eventually. The guy turned out to be the owner of the most famous Chinese restaurant in Hyderabad, Blue Diamond (if you’re ever in Hyderabad, take an auto, say ‘Blue Diamond, Basheer Bagh, near Lal Bahadur Shastri stadium’. Try the Cantonese chicken soup. The Bhutan chicken. Chicken, bamboo shoots and mushroom noodles. And tell Chun that Satya says hi, and that I’ve got some things he may get later this year). I was a semi-starving student back then, and went to the restaurant a few weekends later. He took me to his room upstairs, where I stood gasping at a pile of comics scattered around tables and shelves. He brought me some dumplings and noodles and let me be for a few hours. We occasionally call each other from random bookshops in different parts of the world and crow about new acquisitions. We are like that only.

7. a) The most interesting conversation you’ve had in a bookshop?

The one with Ahmed sir, where we talked about my buying 90 years of bound Punch magazines. It took him about 30-odd minutes to convince me that I should not pay him my money. He talked about some of his other regular customers, and how he does not want me to end up like them, buying books just to own them. Sometimes, I think he knew me better than my friends did.

8. If you witness someone else reading a book, what habit of theirs is likely to piss you off?

Seeing someone reading a book without any discernible reactions, especially when I know it’s supposed to make you laugh or react in some way. My bad habit is that if I see the person reading a book I know, I keep asking “where are you now?” and “what do you think?”. It’s almost like I take their reaction to it personally. Stupid.

9. What was the most bizarre dream you had after reading a book?

I dreamt something really terrifying after reading From Hell the first time. I do not want to remember what I saw in my dream, but it was to do with entrails, Ganesha, living cities and a coach following me through cobbled streets. Brrr.

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Concerts, Music

Concert Diaries: Early Winters and The Pierces At the Hotel Cafe

When it comes to concerts in LA, I tend to repeat my mistakes. Instead of booking tickets the minute they come out on sale – and believe me, it’s easy to be privy to “secret” pre-sales and special offers – I postpone my buying until the last minute. Nine times out of ten, or maybe three times out of ten, please feel free to insert any statistical value here that drives my point home, the tickets are sold out. And then I have to trawl Craigslist, eBay, Stubhub, even last.fm users who say they’re going, in order to come up with tickets at the last minute.

But it is possible to get tickets second-hand, of course. Fun things have happened when I went to get them. Like the bus journey that lasted half a day, involved a long walk through a golf course and by a duck pond, and culminated in me fidgeting near a pool party. A guy wearing a wife-beater and flanked by three gorgeous women took a wad of tickets out of his cargos and picked four for me. After accepting  payment, he asked me if I would like to join the party. I had a birthday party to attend, and I declined. I regret that. But the Feist concert proved to be wonderful, and I managed to sell two of my tickets and broke even, hah!

The Pierces were a band I had stumbled across thanks to a recommendation from a Gossip Girl addict, and much of early 2010 was spent tripping on Thirteen Tales of Love and Revenge. It’s a brilliant album, the two sisters spinning their addictive melodies over lyrics that spoke of secrets, boredom and making love with the lights on. I heard of their appearance at the Hotel Cafe when attending the Ariana Hall appearance at the same venue, a few weeks ago. Did not buy tickets, did not pass go, landed up at the venue early today hoping to get some. They were preceded by a band called Early Winters, and the sign said that the venue would be cleared after their set ended. Undeterred, I got in for the first set. A fine performance by the band more than made up for a somewhat-long work-day. The lead singers were a Canadian dude and a British lady, and their other band members were in New Zealand and Japan when they collaborated on their album over Skype video chats.

Soon after the venue was cleared, we went outside and stood on the aisle of shame. “Back up against the wall, please”, the lady at the gate kept repeating to us, and the two Middle-eastern women in front of me giggled all throughout. After some nerve-wracking minutes, they finally agreed to let us in. I fist-bumped the bouncer, swooped in to say hello to the lead singer of Early Winters, who was selling merchandise near the front door – got a signed CD from her, my third CD in 2 weeks, looks like a bad habit’s in the making – and sauntered in. The sisters rocked the set, debuting songs from their new album and totally bringing the house down with old favorites. The Hotel Cafe, ladies and gentlemen. I have a feeling I’ll become a regular here.

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Myself

Something That Happened

The route to my house involves a transfer at Culver City Transit Center. Usually, if I time it right, I get the second bus minutes after the first bus arrive there. The sweetest days are the ones when both buses come into the Transit Center at the same time, and I breezily hop out of the first and walk over to the second, not even looking up from the iPad, knocking the old ladies aside and elbowing the other commuters just so I can get in and take my pick of the seats. My experience in India makes me extra-aggressive in other countries.

Actually, I am sweet and totally let the old ladies get in first. Just so you know.

This happened on one of those evenings when things weren’t going right. One of those awful days at work that makes you want to pick up a baseball bat, then toss it aside and pick up a scimitar instead, wave it a few times just to hear that nice swishy sound, and then turn to the baseball bat again. And then you proceed to trash your computer into teeny-weeny pieces of glass, plastic and metal, shouting “Who’s your daddy now, huh?” over and over again. Yes, and as the clock strikes 6, you strike it right back and walk out with your head held high.

A day like this would feel a little better (and kinder to the universe at large) if I managed to catch the second bus immediately when the first bus reached the Transit Center. If only. That did not happen, and I gnashed my teeth in impotent rage when I stepped down from the first bus to see the second one turning around the corner. I took a deep breath, allowing Nature to chuckle and savor its moment in the sun. The next bus was 45 minutes away. I walked toward the bench and sat down, heaving a sigh.

Any other day, I would have sat there and people-watched to my heart’s content. Usually that time of the day would see a lot of shoppers milling around. Chubby young women and nattily dressed men waiting for other buses. A bunch of Japanese girls, dressed to kill, chattering away on their pink and white cellphones. A skateboarder or two, a few bikers, executives holding their evening lattes and briefcases. You get all kinds at the bus stop, every single day, a familiar pattern of faces and dresses. But that summer day, I was too pissed to notice anyone around me. I sat in a corner of the metal bench willing the minutes to pass by faster, Eminem spitting murder and mayhem in my ears. I probably had a very don’t-mess-with-me look on my face, because no one came and sat next to me.

And then, from the corner of my eye, I saw this little girl.

She was there with her mother, and the lady was sitting on the other end of the bench, far away from me. The little girl must have been five or six years old, and she was, like any other young lady her age, trying to extricate as much joy as she could from her surroundings. She ran after one of the skateboarders, stopped suddenly and grinned at someone, and then felt embarrassed and ran to her mother. She spent some time investigating the underside of the bench, discovered that she could crawl from one end to the other, and began playing hide-and-seek with anyone who looked at her.

I did not. I was feeling too antisocial to let the sight of something like that make me feel any better. If you know what I mean. I went back to staring at the distance and let reality fade away into the thump and growl of my earphones.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the little girl stop and stare at me.

I looked at her. I looked away from her. And then looked again.

She was still staring.

Any other day, I would have smiled at her. A nice friendly smile that would have acknowledged her presence and reassured her of her importance in the fabric of life at the bus stop. Maybe she would have smiled back, looked away and then would go  back to her playful running around. None of what followed would have happened. But I did not. I looked at her without moving a muscle on my face, and then looked away again. It was nothing personal, believe me. As far as I was concerned, all the cumulative cuteness in the universe would not have gotten me out of my blue funk that evening.

As you may imagine, this just made the girl try harder to get my attention. She began to run around me, giggle loudly, stop for a while and look at me again. Wanting me to look at her and smile, or at least acknowledge her presence. Yes, it was obvious. No, I did not relent.

After some time, she quietened down and went towards her mother, who was talking animatedly to someone else. Being a little curious, I turned slightly towards her to see what she would do. She took a bunch of papers from out of her mother’s purse, and came over and plonked down right next to me. Now, it was her turn to pretend like she had nothing to do. I watched her as she flipped through the sheets of paper in her hand, each of which was a drawing, presumably by her. They were childish scrawls done in crayon. A house and a tree. A bird. Trees on a beach. An apple. She flipped through each of them slowly, with deliberation, like she was trying to come to a decision. When time she came to the last one, the apple, she glanced up at me, and took the drawing out. And held it out to me.

I had no idea what to do.

I could sense that some of the other adults at the bus stop noticed the goings-on, some of them smiling to themselves, others just curious about what would happen next. I flicked my head towards the girl’s mother, who by then had stopped her conversation, and was staring at her daughter trying to offer a stranger a drawing. Everybody seemed eager to see what I did, how I would respond.

I folded. I took the paper from her. Looked at it. Looked at it some more. And then I handed it back to her. She shook her head, and ran back to her mother. Looked back at me again and smiled.

I remembered something, something I had forgotten to do that morning. I took the piece of paper, unzipped my bag and put it inside. Zipped it up. I looked at my little art benefactor, looked her right in the eye. Then I turned to my bag, and stared at it. Stared at it long and hard and even frowned a little, like I was willing something to happen. She looked puzzled, and more than a little bemused at my strange behavior.

And then I unzipped my bag, took out the apple that I had packed as a snack that morning and had forgotten to eat at the office, and crunched into it.

I believe it was the expression on her face, as well as the moment in itself, that caused the spontaneous outburst of laughter and the scattered applause.

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Myself, Travel

Car-mic Complexities

Most people say that Los Angeles is a bad place to be in if you don’t have a car. That’s just people who do not live in this city. People who live here refuse to believe you when they learn you do not own one. There’s shocked silence, and a hesitant query about how you do your groceries, or go to the office. Much wonderment about your mental (and financial) state. By the time you have been here a few months, you realize that in terms of your social status, being without a car is just one step above being homeless.

But good lord, if you think not having a car causes shock and awe, you should look at reactions when I mention that I take the bus. “THE BUS!!” – people exclaim. “Aren’t they – like – unsafe?” Everyone thinks that buses are filled with weirdos and homeless people who are out to kill, rape or spray body fluids on you. I do not claim omniscience, but nearly 11 months of regular commute has made me realize that most of these assumptions are far-fetched. Most LA people who take the bus are normal. There is the occasional person that smells of pee or the religious nut that babbles about how Jesus will save all of us if we are nice. I even got an arguer this one time, a lady next to me who kept having an argument with herself, a very loud one. (She won at the end, I think. Well, one of her.)

The only problem with buses in Los Angeles is the time these lumbering, polite hulks take to travel. That, and their low frequency at non-rush-hour times, including weekends. Buses on most routes travel close to empty. I don’t have to worry about lack of seats or road rage when travelling, and I get enough read-time. There’s the occasional interesting person you meet, either at the bus-stop or in the bus. There were two different people reading The Hunger Games just a few weeks ago, and we had nice, albeit brief conversations about Peeta’s true intentions – I kept a straight face and did not reveal spoilers, for the record. I’ve also seen a lot of the parts of LA that are considered seedy and unsafe in the nights, thanks to bus transfers. Waiting for a bus at 2 AM in Downtown LA is a peculiar experience that one cannot describe in words. It felt adventurous, but was probably a little stupid. Those may have been gunshots. Or just cars backfiring, I can’t tell.

Taking the bus has also cultivated a few lifestyle tics in me. Like the need to carry a few dollar bills and quarters everywhere I go. My hand involuntarily goes inside my right pocket, when I am leaving the house – key, phone, dollar bills, change. Bus passes? Not really too helpful with the different services – Culver City Bus, Metro Transit, Santa Monica Big Blue. The iPad’s always at hand, and I attach 15 minutes to every journey. Which happens to be the time it takes to get from my apartment to the closest Metro bus stop.

“Yet”, I always remember to add. “I do not own a car yet.” “When are you getting one?”, people ask. “I should, I know,” I say. I don’t tell them that I am postponing this arcane real-life ritual as much as I can. I am not sure why. Probably I have never really been attracted to cars, or tried to figure them out. Until very recently, every car looked the same to me – the only variants my mind could decipher were ‘frog-like’ or ‘bat-mobile-like’. I owned a scooter for a few years in Hyderabad, which served the purpose of getting from point A to point B very well. Except when it rained, but everyone knows that when it rains, you are supposed to sit at home, make hot onion pakodas[ref]http://i673.photobucket.com/albums/vv91/madhuram/spring-onion-pakoda.jpg[/ref] and watch movies or read. Fact is, yes, the lack of obsession about buying a car was also  because my money was always earmarked for Other Things[ref]http://www.comicartfans.com/GalleryDetail.asp?GCat=11998[/ref]. One could make do without a car, but not a Dringenberg Sandman page. It helped that I stayed a few minutes away from the office. The only problem with everyday life was negotiating with auto-rickshaw drivers, but I stayed in Bangalore for a year. That inured me to meter manipulation and made me ruthless with scathing remarks about time and distance.

All right, fine, I agree, I make too much light of this. Of course it would be awesome to own a car. I could then go attend concerts every day. Go to Meltdown Comics every Thursday for the Nerd Melt shows. Heck, attend every fucking event I want to go to, without having to negotiate bus routes in my head. Head over to Artesia whenever I want some biryani. Do stuff. Do more stuff than what I do at the moment, at the very least. I generally give up on plans on weekends just because I would have to plan bus routes and keep some time aside for the inevitable delays. (“Not true”, Inner Voice exclaims. “You’re just lazy.” You’re right, Inner Voice, now shut up and think of what will happen in Episode 3 of Sherlock. We still have the last part of the weekend to watch it, right? “Oh, all right. Now hurry up with this tiresome self-obsessed post of yours.” Hmm, ok. Shall we? “Let’s.”)

I should have tried this last conversation with myself in a bus.

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Books, Myself

Book Meme

1. What’s your favorite time of day to read?

In the morning, when I am on my way to the office. I get about 45 minutes, and if I am reading something really interesting, I just stagger my travel-time so that I wait longer at the bus-stop. That helps set the tone for the day, really.

2. Do you read during meals?

Yes. And no. Depends on the company I keep, really. When I worked in my previous company, I treated lunchtime like it was special, would not go out with anyone, and infallibly took a book to read. I did not read during dinner because that would be rude. I used to think eating by itself is a waste of time, unless you’re doing something else along with chewing your food. My parents hated that.

Now, I only read during lunch if I am in the middle of something very interesting. Most of the time, I go out to lunch with colleagues, so reading’s out of the question. If I delay lunch sometimes because of work, I still read.

3. Do you have bad habits while reading?

When I read a book that’s exciting, time passes by faster. My eyes dart through the pages faster as well. Happens to all of us. But you know what sucks? When there’s a chapter break at a crucial moment in the narrative. What happens then is that my eyes, out of their own accord, jump to the end of the chapter and read the last few words. This drops a nice monkey-wrench into the few seconds of build-up that would have been my due. I hate this habit, and I wish I could control it, but it feels impossible. (Sad panda face)

Once upon a time, I chewed on (and swallowed) corners of pages. True story.

4. How many hours a day would you say you read?

Again, depends on the book(s) I am reading. Can vary between 2 hours to maybe 7 hours (I’ve done read-binges from 9 PM to 3 AM). I read more in the weekend, if I am not doing anything else.

5. Do you read more or less now than you did, say, 10 years ago?

I have been reading more over the last year, thanks to the iPad and the iPhone. Been doing 2-3 books every week, and way more comics/manga. Also, I read different books at different times of the day, just to keep things interesting.

6. Do you consider yourself a speed reader?

I’ve done 900-page books in a day. You do the math.

7. If you could have any superpower related to books, what would it be?

The ability to carry my physical collection with me wherever I go. Remembering lines that I like verbatim. The ability to super-sample a book before I read it, without any spoilers.

(As you must have figured out already, I think about super-powers a lot. Just in case I need to pick one on the spot.)

8. Do you carry a book with you everywhere you go?

I carry an iPad everywhere I go. Which means I carry thousands of books with me. I win.

9. What kind of book do you prefer to read?

Something unlike the one that I just finished reading. Unless it’s the first in a trilogy or a series and I need to know what happens next.

10. How old were you when you got your first library card?

Six and a half. 1986 was a long time ago, goddammit. It was at the Tezpur district library, which had a ripping children’s book collection, and I had a really cool elder-brother-figure who took me to the library once a week, on his bicycle.

11. What’s the oldest book you have in your collection? (Oldest physical copy? Longest in the collection? Oldest copyright?)

The oldest book would be an 1893 copy of Charles Reade’s The Cloister And the Hearth. It belonged to a relative, and I took it from him because one of our English readers had an excerpt from it involving a hunter and a bear. The rest of the book was pretty disappointing, if I remember correctly.

I still have a copy of Ukrainian Folk Tales from 1987, that I bought with my own money. But the oldest may be a copy of Indira Gandhi, by Swraj Paul, that my father gifted me on my sixth birthday. I have spoken about this before.

12. Do you read in bed? Do you like reading in bed?

Yes. Ouch. I read in bed in strange positions, one old favorite being lying back, lifting my legs against the wall, and laying the book against my knees.

13. Do you write in your books?

No. HELL NO!

Though I have taken to highlighting interesting paragraphs within iBooks, nowadays. But it’s usually pointless, because I do not refer to them later on.

14. If you had one piece of advice to a new reader, what would it be?

Just one? Let me go with three.

  • You’ve wasted a lot of time being a non-reader. Make up for that lost time by reading more.
  • Read the classics first. There is a reason why they are the classics.
  • If you do not like the first 10 pages of a book, find out someone you know and whose taste you respect and ask them if it’s worth reading. If they cannot convince you, move on and read something else.

 15. What was the last book you read? What are you reading now?

The first book I read this year was I Am Feeling Lucky: The Confessions of Google Employee Number 59, which was a tremendously entertaining story of Google from the director of marketing and brand management. This forms a sort of companion to In the Plex that I read last year, which was sort of a from-the-outside look at the company.

I finished Killing Floor after that, the first of the Jack Reacher novels by Lee Child. I liked it, but I am not sure if I should read any more of them because a friend tells me they are more of the same.

I am now reading The Strain by Chuck Hogan and Guillermo del Toro, which begins really well.

There’s a whole bunch of comics I am reading as well, including the Noble Causes Archives, Absolute Death and the Walter Simonson Thor Omnibus. The latter two are rereads.

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