There’s more to life than books…

I’m getting behind on my reading. I’m supposed* to have read around 60 books by the end of June. I just finished #41. In the words of a great dog, “Ruh roh.”

Here’s what I read in May.

I bought Words Will Break Cement from Book People in Austin, a store that single-handedly made me want to move to that city. I heard the author on “Fresh Air” a few months ago and put it on my to-read list. When I go book shopping, I try to find the longest title on the list so it clears as much room as possible, because my to-read list already takes up two notes on my phone and I feel like three notes of books makes me a little bit Crazy Book Lady. Anyway, Words Will Break Cement is about Pussy Riot. I’ve long been on the side of “Putin is a dick, but he’s kind of a quirky eccentric dick.” This book put me on side “DUDE IS CRAZY.” So come on, Russia. Get with it.

Scar Tissue was pretty much the perfect vacation book. It was fluffy and trashy and long enough to read on the plane and poolside. I generally dislike the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and this didn’t make me like them any more, but it was a nice addition to my gigantic list of rock star memoirs.

When I told my best friend I was reading a memoir by the first female prime minister of Norway, she said it was “the most Minnesotan thing ever.” Maybe it was? Either way, Madam Prime Minister was mostly really dull and disjointed, but if you’ve ever wondered what Norway’s view on nuclear disarmament was in the ’80s, this is your jam.

I really only need books about music in New York in the ’70s to be about punk music. Love Goes to Buildings on Fire covered that, but also jazz (not so interested,) hip-hop (kinda interested,) and general Latino music (more interested than I was before I started the book, but still kinda meh.)

A Prayer for Owen Meany is the novel I’ve liked most in a long time. I think nonfiction is my real love, but it’s hard to get lost in it the way you can with a good novel. I’ve gotten pickier about what makes a good novel, but this was one.

The author of Becoming Jane Austen made an awful lot of leaps in faith that did not seem justified. Also, Jane Austen isn’t really that interesting. Sorry, world, but I’d really rather read a biography of her sister-in-law Eliza.

*Supposed to, in terms of arbitrary things, that is.


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