-POSTED BY THE BOOKHOUND

Everyone has a story about how they got to where they are. Most just haven’t taken the time to ponder it, much less write it down.

I want to take a moment to give you a bit of insight into a Roman Catholic child’s life…

(I would love to see comments on how many of you remember these sentiments…)

Feigning sickness or death each Sunday morning- I would sit in bed and wait to either smell my mother’s perfume (you’re going to church, move it!), or bacon (get down here for breakfast, move it!), or both (why doesn’t dad have to go to church with us???). More often than not, the smell of some musty alcohol-laced floral would waft up the stairs and alert me that the next scents to greet me would be incense and old people.

On more than a few occasions, I tried to explain to my mother that times were changing, and that watching mass on the television would not only keep my attention, but we could all eat breakfast (thereby maintaining good nutrition), and spend the day together as the good Lord had intended. Apparently, the Lord worked through my mother in mysterious ways, and although I still can not imagine any loving God telling my mom to pass on the message to ‘get my damn clothes on and be quiet’; I’m sure it must have been something like ‘thou must hasten thy speed, dress in grandest robe, and silence; lest ye not hear the blessed voice of your Lord’. Or whatever.

On to mass. Let it be said that before entering the church, the ladies of the congregation begin in what equates to a combination bazaar/tribal dance/talent competition-thing. Naturally, the children lag behind the parents, desperately trying to hold on to that last shred of coolness with the equivalent of a piece of dental floss. The moms huddle. They gather. They smoke that last pre-game cigarette before ushering their broods into the lanes of ultra-uncomfortable seating.

Let’s just stop at that for a moment. What sort of a sadist came up with the pew? Seriously- is it not torment enough that the service for a Roman Catholic compares to a Richard Simmons workout? Is it not enough that one is not even allowed to wear the appropriate sweat-suit to attend? Nope. You see- Mom’s God does not want you to be comfortable. It delights this deity to see you in full on starched poly, sneezing uncontrollably from the church-scent ‘dinge’, and topped of by having your only rest for the hour and a half be a couple of pieces of plywood stuck together. These seats made those padded knee rests seem comfortable…

Anyhow- apparently G.K. Chesterton also felt the irresistible nag to ’skip out’ on church whilst penning ‘Heretics’

Given the tenor of the book, one can only assume that Chesterton is in ‘growth’ phase. We can confirm this, seeing as how his follow up book, ‘Orthodoxy’, finds Chesterton doing an about-face.

It’s refreshing to read an author who was so willing to dig deep into himself to find faith. To be the sort of humble we just don’t see anymore. Check out this report to see that we just don’t have the religious ’sticktoitiveness’ that we used to.

What with all that’s been made available to the masses since his time; it’s no wonder people just aren’t as compelled to spend any amount of time on religious introspection.

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Bookhound asks:

How many of you have had a similar experience to mine?

Who amongst you have actually changed sides, as we’ll say, like G.K. Chesterton?

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-POSTED BY THE BOOKHOUND

Today’s title is brought to you by the classic Bob Dylan song ‘Rainy Day Women, 12 & 35′…

I know that this’ll be a difficult pill to swallow (pun intended), but apparently the government believes that drugs are bad. In the event that you are not prepared to believe this, I have provided a recent government report of said topic.

Let me preface what I’m about to say with the subtle disclaimer: BOOKHOUND IS NOT CONDONING THE USE OF DRUGS.

That said, I want to engage you all in convivial discussion about the possibility (I believe, probability), that artistically, much good has come from the ‘assistance’ of various mediums.

Take for instance:

Baudelaire, Burroughs, Carrol

Clinton (whatever- he still smoked it)

Dali, Doyle, Edison, Freud, Gates (as in, William. He too, had some college days), Hoffman, Huxley

I still have quite a bit of alphabet to go- but you see the point. (here is the full list). So I present to you William James. His works in general ask much of the reader insofar as to insist that the very logic that is utilized by the majority of us, is in fact- wrong. A bold move for anyone. Certainly, this wasn’t a man who was out to placate the populous.

They say that alcohol is the truth serum, something to loosen one up, make it easier to ‘mingle’. Imagine then, the boldness that must come from copious amounts of nitrous oxide- one of many ‘tools’ that James was know to employ. For anyone who has ever questioned the nature of things- this is your book. James didn’t just want to check out the grass on the other side of the fence- he wanted to tear the thing down.

Varieties of Religious Experience

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POSTED BY THE BOOKHOUND

…’gone are the days when the ladies said please…’
-Brown Eyed Women (Hunter, Garcia)

Too true. Given the advent of celebrating women who behave poorly; (think Amy Winehouse, Ms. Spears, Lindsey Lohan), I give pause to think back to a time when such actions weren’t condoned, and women were symbols of virtue. Wait- did that EVER happen?

It is comical to juxtapose some great examples of the ‘multiplicity of women’…Admittedly- some of my favorite reads are those which highlight the ‘bad girls’ throughout the ages, so in tribute- here’s a link to a fabulous blog out there devoted to just that: http://scandalouswoman.blogspot.com

Etiquette, Emily Post- For the domestic goddess in all of us. A hysterical book this day in age. I suppose it could incite a good many who are unable to see the humor, and find it instead to reek of the objectification of women; but hey- times have changed.

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And in honor of one of my favorite ‘against-the-grain’ girls, Ms. Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Bookhound presents the Collected Works of our not-so-fair lady.

Raised in abject poverty, Vassar educated, Pulitzer Prize winning, and able to wear the proverbial pants to a tee- Ms. Millay remains a fixture in literary circles, long after her 1950 passing. BUY THE BOOK

So either sit back with some cookies baked from scratch, or take another whiskey swill; either way these two are sure to please…

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