Five Books I Think you Should Read ( No reviews, just images)

"The Handmaid's Tale"- The Struggle was Real!

When I was much younger, my mother was my source for literature. She was my internet, albeit a far more learned and well-read source than most of the ones I encounter virtually. She introduced me to science fiction, Stephen King and Ray Bradbury. And even when my own tastes formed and I started branching away from what I considered her safer, more by-the-numbers interests, I never stopped respecting her opinions, as they were informed and well-expressed. I have, in fact, tried to live my life in a similar fashion.

So when I finally decided to give Margaret Atwood's "The Handmaid's Tale" a chance, I found myself struggling with that respect in the worst sort of post-mortem way.

"What the hell, Mom?" I said to her memory. "Were you drunk?"

Realizing that was a horrible thing to ask a diabetic even if she's no longer among the living, I retracted that question and instead said, "Dude, seriously?" because nothing thrilled my mother more than being addressed as "Dude."

In fact, she loved it so much she appeared in my family room seconds after I said it.

"What's your problem?" she said.

"Nice to see you, too." I held up the copy of "The Handmaid's Tale" I'd borrowed from work and shook it in her direction. "But since you asked, this is my problem. Excuse my Swahili, but what the hell were you thinking?"

"You didn't care for it, I presume?" My mother's eyebrows were always thin and fine, yet somehow they became darker and bushier when she raised them in disdain.

"You presume correctly, Doctor Nadeau. You talked this book up throughout my teen years, made me think it was an untouchable, brilliant masterpiece of social commentary, and--"

"And?"

"And I'd like to know if you were still in the process of getting your meds adjusted at the time."

She crossed her arms and sighed. "You know damn well I never took anything except Insulin and pain meds later on in life."

Nodding, I said, "Which brings us to the real issue, then. I mean, I know we disagreed on matters of taste when I got older. You kind've settled into a comfort zone, most likely due to your health issues and all."

She shrugged. "Probably a safe assessment. I always said you should have gone into psycho-analysis."

"One shrink in the family was enough. But my point is, setting aside the clearly intriguing concept, this is one of the dullest books I've read in years."

"All right." She uncrossed her arms and took a seat across from me. "Why?"

I sat as well. "For starters, the writing is bland and self-conscious."

"How much of it did you actually read?"

"I got through the first two chapters."

A heavy sigh. "Christopher,is it possible you'd like it more if you stuck with it?"

"Yes. It's also possible I could learn to like electrocution if I keep my feet dunked in water."

At this point, her image shimmered as if someone had flicked the lights off and on. I asked her if she was okay and she smiled. "What else didn't you like about it?"

I went into greater detail then. I told her how even though it accomplished the requisite task of establishing its universe early on, it never felt genuine. It felt, in fact, like a preachy commentary piee with a thinly disguised parable as its artful dodge. I concluded with the fact that the entire concept is wrapped in a cozy cocoon of white middle class feminism that presumes only gender divides stand between people and freedom.

"Okay, fair enough," she said. "But are you sure it's the book you're upset about or is it the fact that you're disappointed in my praise of it?"

I dropped the book onto the floor and stomped on it twice. "The book."

She grinned, telling me I hadn't lost my flair for the dramatic. "It's okay that you didn't care for it. If I taught you nothing else, I hope it was to develop your own tastes and be able to defend them. You've done that. So, why am I here?"

"Isn't it obvious? It's been years since I've had the opportunity to berate you. I've missed it."

She smiled that smile I can only recall in spontaneous memories or maybe sometimes find in an old photograph and said, "I miss you, too."

I watched her shimmer again, this time fading a bit. Our time was nearly up, then. "I love you, Mom."

"I love you, too, sweetie."

"Book still sucked, though."

And as she faded, I'm not entirely sure, but I think she flipped me off~

My Literary Hero James Morrow's Thoughts on the Trump Victory.

"Beneath the disgusting and endlessly distracting masks of Donald Trump—misogynist, racist, xenophobe, religious bigot—lies the matrix of a face unprecedented among those forty-four men who’ve held our country’s highest office: the face not of a mere sociopath (the republic was hardly spared that in the past) but rather of a sociopath who can’t be bothered to disguise his lack of a conscience, knowing that a corrupt legislature will do that for him. And so we leap into a void ...not foreseen by the 18th-century Enlightenment rationalists who assembled our republic: a zone of raw nihilism and provisional absurdity, reverberant with the dark laughter of a nonexistent Providence, where ignorant armies clash by night and tell lies by day, waiting for Godot. Were the stakes not so large, and the impending piles of bodies not so high, my own inner sociopath would anticipate the next four years with sheer, salivating, hideous pleasure."

What I Did When Faced with a Trump-like Sexist Diatribe from an Employer.

I won’t bother rehashing the content of Donald Trump’s leaked “hot mic” comments regarding women to a disturbingly complicit Billy Bush in 2005. Lord knows enough is currently being said about it, including at least one brilliant parody courtesy of “Saturday Night Live” and Alex Baldwin’s dead-on impression of the be-wigged Cheeto.  What’s really important to me is the fact that there are people out there, male and female, who are claiming this is normal “boys will be boys” banter and that all of us with male plumbing indulge in it.

That, dear reader, is absolute horseshit.

Of course, to hear former Eighties teen heartthrob Scott Baio tell it, there’s nothing wrong with Trump’s advocacy of sexual assault and female objectification. After all, “He talks like a guy.” And if Chachi/Bob Labla can’t tell us how life works, who’s left? Well, me for one. I’m at least as qualified as a faded TV actor whose constant stabs at relevance involve latching onto the coattails of a lunatic who’s ushered in more hatred in his followers than we’ve seen since the heyday of fascism. Since we know how Baio would have smiled and nodded appreciatively with his hands in his pockets while Trump discussed women using the “P-word,” we must return again to Billy Bush.

Bush sat there and giggled and fed into Trump’s braggadocio for ten minutes when he could have easily put a stop to it. He wasn’t a kid either. He also wasn’t recording this as part of an expose, since Billy Bush is about as much of a genuine journalist as Maury Povich. He is either a coward or he agreed with what he was hearing.

While complaining to my wife about the fact that Bush is a wus of the highest order, she asked me if I would have stopped Trump’s offensive comments. When I told I would have, she chuckled lightly and said, “Come on. Really?”

Then I told her about my own similar experience with a former boss who was an attorney and a rabid, sexist twerp. He never went as far as Trump but he started the first time we sat down together discussing women in a derogatory way. I told him I was uncomfortable with it and that there were women in the office and I wasn’t interested in having this conversation, especially in the workplace. He looked at me as if I’d grown a horn in the middle of my face. Later on when speaking with the female co-worker and personal friend who had recommended me for the job (it involved writing) he asked her if I was gay because of what I’d said to him. After all, what kind of guy would pass up the opportunity to discuss boobs and butts no matter where he was?

She said, “No. He just doesn’t choose to discuss women’s body parts at work. He’s a decent MAN.”

Needless to say, he was taken aback. My wife, upon hearing this, looked at me as if seeing me for the first time, her face bright, her eyes and mouth equally wide with joy.  She told me I was her hero and, coming from someone who’d been surrounded by sexism all her life, that meant the world.

You see, I get that objectification happens. And it happens on both sides. It can be relatively harmless and it should be expected because we are, at our core, biological entities designed to procreate.  But much like with racism, when someone has the power and wields it in the name of denigrating another human being and sees it as their earned and born into right, that person is loathsome and beneath contempt as well as undeserving of even more power.