Project Ulysses

You like reading monstrously big books.

I have this theory that no book should be 250 to 600 pages long. The theory has holes in it--there are some great books that length--but it's at least usually true. Either a story is a sharp knife which should be ruthlessley edited down to sub-250, or it's a sprawling epic that should go on and on, and even after a thousand pages still leave the reader wanting more.

We'll save the discussion of novellas for another day and focus on the big boys today. Not every big book is great, of course. Ulysses is a tedious work of ego--an impressive thought experiment but an abject failure as a novel. But few reading experiences can compare with being halfway through War and Peace and realizing you still have hundreds and hundreds of wonderful pages left to read--yet even that won't be enough (yes, it's that good)! Then there's the soap opera brilliance of Gone with the Wind, House of Leaves's rare example of modernist genius, the episodic, entertaining sword epic Musashi, the vibrancy of The Stand, the crushing bleakness of The Terror. There are more, of course, some fiction and some not: Shogun, Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, Lonesome Dove, et cetera.

Be wary of naked emperors, however. The aforementioned Ulysses is at the top of the list. Then there are the long and impressive books that, while meritorious, don't quite live up to their reputations. Crime and Punishment and In Search of Lost Time fall into this category.

The cool thing about all of these tomes, though, is that even when you don't enjoy them you still feel the thrill of accomplishment when you finish reading them. Big books are projects; a hobby unto themselves. Any reader who hasn't ventured beyond 500 pages, then beyond 800, is missing something.

Jacked knife

You like the Flexcut Pocket Jack.

Call it old school meets new technology. Back in the day, whittling was done with a curious artifact called a pocket knife. Then the experts got ahold of it. These days, just picking up a stick and carving it requires a kit with eighteen different tools.

I'm not against progress but I do think there's elegance in simplicity. Enter the FPJ. It's just a jackknife, but one devoted entirely to making art out of wood. Now you can walk in the woods and spontaneously create. Sure beats dragging along a pack mule laden with equipment.

Only negative is the price. I realize it's a specialty item but I'd prefer the maker to stick with gouging wood, not customers.

Earth to Mars

You like walking on Mars.

I've heard all the arguments about the advantages of unmanned missions into outer space, and I've considered the merits of spending our money on earthly problems before investing in space. Both are intellectually sound and spiritually inadequate.

Let's not get too excited about the reference to spirit. I don't mean a soul. I mean the human spirit--the improvement and progress of humankind. Robots on Mars are useful, and robots-only on Mars makes great sense to an accountant. But poetry matters. As for the perfectibility of humanity on Earth, forget it. Yes, let's work to alleviate poverty. But if we wait until the last starving person has a happy meal, we'll never get off this rock.

Let's walk on Mars. And if any Martians get in our way, let's give them small pox. We still owe those green motherfuckers for the invasion of '38.

It is broke, so let's fix it

You like living with 100 laws.

It is the nature of government to empower itself. Government gets bigger and the laws it passes are more and more encompassing and invasive. Wouldn't it be great if someone ran on a platform that for every law s/he passed, s/he'd repeal two? Then imagine this thought experiment: that this repeal continued until society had just 100 laws, each detailed on a single page in a book every citizen carried on his person. Everyone knew the law, and every time a politician wanted to pass a new law, s/he'd have to argue why it should replace an existing law. And we'll end the book with a one-page list of ten rights every citizen has as a basis for which to determine when the necessarily generalized stipulations of these one-page laws have actually been broken.

Wild thing

You like feral cats.

Used to be I didn't like them. Whenever our house cats wandered outside, they'd get their asses beaten by their wild brethren. So I took to sending my Staffordshire bull terrier out first to chase them away. She never caught one--and despite the tough exterior, I'm not convinced she would have actually hurt them (unless they made the mistake of standing up to her). But just as I had an epiphany about domestic cats, I've done an about face on the feral variety: if domestic cats are cool because they're tiny predators that live in your home, feral cats are just as cool for being predators that have reentered the wild animal kingdom. Think of them as feline dingos. (Now try to think of them as feline dingos without hearing Meryl Streep doing an Australian accent. Can't do it, can you?)

I owe feral cats. I tried to execute them with my dog. So this coming summer, I'm going to put together a feral cat shelter and stow it back in the woods; provide a little home for the vicious critters. I'm going high roller on it--two floors, weather sealed, mouse dispenser--the whole kitty and kaboodle. We've got coyotes back there, not to mention black bears, so I may have to take a further step and arm them with spears and slingshots.

Not guns, though. I'm not taking that chance again.

2008 - 2011

You liked Jackie.

Orphan. Athlete. Adventurer. Inspiration.

Hamster.

Bastard, Ontario

You like the town of Saint-Louis-du-Ha!-Ha!, Quebec, and also Mushaboom and Ecum Secum, Nova Scotia, and Gin Cove and Ass Hill in Newfoundland. (The sister cities of Come By Chance and Leave on Purpose were short-listed but didn't make the cut.)

No, I haven't forgotten Dildo. I just don't pander to lewd-minded pervs.