I thought some noir fiction might be a nice way to round off the weekend, and this was bound with my copy of The Maltese Falcon, so it was kind of asking to be read. Alas, the book developed A Smell somewhere in the midst of The Thin Man which led me to  believe that something in it was perhaps moldering. I suspect that someone was nibbling snicky snacks and reading at some point in this book’s history.

Anyway, I tried to rise above The Smell and just enjoy the book, along with the characters. Honestly, I didn’t like it as much as The Maltese Falcon, because I just didn’t get as into the plot and characters. I’m not sure why, that’s just how it went, as these things sometimes do. I think it was Dorothy that really put me off, with all her whining and thrashing about, although Nora, to be fair, was a balancing character and a total badass.

It was actually really nice to finally read a book with a strong female lead, after all the schlock I’ve been reading, and Nora was pretty darn awesome. She had spunk and a sense of humor, and yeah sometimes she played the Dearest Wife role, but you could tell that it was tongue in cheek, and with a roll of the eyes, so it wasn’t as nauseating as it could have been.

I also found the setting of New York much less engaging, maybe because I actually know San Francisco, so in The Maltese Falcon, I kept going “oh I know where they are,” or “I’ve been there,” and it gave me something to connect with. Or perhaps it’s my deep-seated fear of New York City which causes me to feel a bit faint even when I read about it.

Demographics:

The Thin Man, by Dashiell Hammett. Published 1933, 201 pages. Fiction.

We went to see The Dark Knight on Friday, but I was too lazy to write about it until this morning, mainly because I watched Dr. Horrible several times in a row, and I was so gorged on Whedon that I couldn’t function. And I was going to talk about Dr. Horrible, the blog sensation that broke the Internet, but I figure everyone else already is, and we all know it’s awesome, so why preach to the choir?

Now, if you haven’t seen the movie, and you don’t want to be spoiled, you probably shouldn’t read on, because I am going to talk about some of the key plot things that happened, and you might want to watch those unfold on your own. I just thought I would warn you.

Basically, I don’t know a lot about the Batman mythology, so I go to the Batman movies because I like fast cars and things that explode. I happened to rather like The Dark Knight, as did many of my companions, and we stood around outside the movie theatre talking about it for a good 45 minutes afterwards, which I think says something.

As someone pointed out, the movie isn’t really about Batman. He’s more like “the gun that everyone uses,” as Petey put it. It’s about the fall of Harvey, and that’s what made it great, was the exploration of how far someone needs to be pushed to fall. It’s something I muse over a lot, so it’s a theme I like to see played with. To see Harvey go from a force for righteousness to, uhm, a bad guy, was basically awesome.

I also love, love, LOVED that they killed the girl. Not just because every time I see her, I think of Secretary, but because it was so right for the movie, because it also becomes an exploration of the fall of Batman, and his ultimate decision to fall on the sword, now that he has lost everything. It just needed to happen, so I’m glad it did.

It was a dark, fast-paced movie with a lot of stuff going on. Heath Ledger as the Joker was fucking brilliant, and I don’t just say that to idolize the dead, because he was just that good. As Baxt said, the scene where the Joker is in the semi and he says “hmmm,” while he’s trying to figure out what to do…that was awesome. As was the freaky tongue thing he did. He inhabited the character in a way that I don’t think the other actors did, and he really did become an agent of chaos and evil. Nicely done.

I know that reviewer responses were mixed, but that’s usually how it goes. I liked it, and that’s what matters, to me anyway.

When the atom bombs were dropped on Japan, war correspondent George Weller realized that therein lay a story, and he decided to get to Nagasaki at all costs to interview survivors and American POWs. He managed the feat, impersonating a colonel along the way, and went on to tour several prisoner of war camps, all without authorization.

The pages and pages and pages of dispatches he filed, however, never made it back to the United States, because they were caught by censors in Tokyo. Not long after the war, he lost his original copies, and spent the rest of his life lamenting the loss.

In 2002, his son found the original dispatches while he was cleaning up his father’s home after his death, and he decided to publish them. The result was First Into Nagasaki, which is a fascinating book. It’s interesting for two reasons. The first is that Weller really was one of the first into Nagasaki, and he interviewed all kinds of people and saw all sorts of interesting things, so it’s awesome just from a historical perspective. What’s almost more interesting is Weller’s reaction to the bombs, which must be viewed in the context of the Second World War. It’s fascinating to watch his attitude shift, as he at first dismisses the death toll and calls the bombs “humane,” and then slowly begins to realize the extent of the damage, and the brutality of radiation poisoning.

When I first started reading, I really disliked this book, because I thought Weller was too flippant, and he didn’t do justice to the situation. This attitude was, of course, informed by the fact that I was reading these reports over 60 years after the fact, with years of education about the long-term effects of the bombs. As his attitude shifted and he started to learn about radiation poisoning, I found my own reaction changing, as it was really brought home to me that people didn’t fully understand what the bombs could do.

The book also included a lot of material from prisoner of war camps in Japan, which was really interesting. I don’t really agree with the hyperbole in the afterward that “no one” reported on prisoner of war camps in Japan and that people don’t know about them, although I will grant that prisoner of war camps in Asia are not as widely publicized as those in Europe. But the information is there, if you know where to look, and the interviews in this book with prisoners of war and camp officials were certainly intriguing.

Demographics:

First Into Nagasaki, by George Weller. Edited by Anthony Weller. Published 2006, 320 pages. History.

I saw this at the bookstore the other day and I couldn’t resist. I am interested in the sciences, especially physics, and although I obviously lack the education and training necessary to really explore physics, I still think it’s interesting to read about physics concepts. And to see an author attempting to take the Buffyverse seriously was a pretty awesome thing.

Basically, this book looks at all of the events in the Buffyverse and tries to rationally explain them, using actual scientific concepts. As the author points out, the Buffyverse isn’t always consistent, and the actual probability of having events like these happen is, uhm, extremely low, but it’s still fun to play around with the idea. What if we could make interdimensional portals? What if vampires really did exist? Where do the PTB get their energy?

I don’t know enough about the sciences to know how accurate this book is, but it was great fun to read, and that was kind of the point. Some people find that it’s easier to view things through the lens of pop culture, which is understandable, and I think that if the author got even one person interested in the hard sciences with this book, that makes it worth it. I also liked the neat little illustrations. And the math jokes.

If you’re any sort of Buffy fan, I think you might get a kick out of this book. If I can convince Tristan to read it, I’ll be interested to hear the perspective of a scientist who is also a Buffy fan.

Demographics:

The Physics of the Buffyverse, by Jennifer Ouellette. Published 2006, 325 pages. Science.

To explain what Clay Harper and Paul Goodman were arguing about, it is probably easiest to simply go back into time for a moment, to explain what happened on the night that Amy Tilly ended up under a pier. The cast of characters that night included the brother and sister Clay and Sarah Harper, Sarah’s friends Amy and Kristin, and Clay’s friend Paul. The five students had been friends for most of their lives, but like all relationships, theirs was complex, and it had undercurrents which might not have been readily apparent.

The bioluminesence was out that night, causing the waves to glitter where they broke on the shore, and the five friends decided to go swimming. They headed north of town, filled with high spirits and perhaps some beer, scattering their things across the sand of a remote beach and diving into the icy waters, watching the brief flares of light as the waves broke around them.

If you haven’t seen bioluminescence, it’s hard to explain what it felt like that night. The entire world turns surreal and almost magical, and the ocean seems alive, with every twist and churning motion illuminated. The ethereal nature made everything that night seem very distant, as though everything was happening at the end of a long tunnel, abstracted.

Amy was first out of the water, breathless, and she pushed through the thick undergrowth along the edges of the beach to gather driftwood, assembling the makings of a fire which was roaring by the time the other four emerged from the water. She had always been handy with that sort of thing, and she shouldn’t help but be pleased when Paul Goodman smiled at her over the flames and waved his hand lazily, suggesting that they walk up the beach.

What happened when they walked up the beach is somewhat unclear in the minds of those who were there that night, primarily out of a deliberate desire to suppress the facts. The Harpers talked with Kristin about the biology project, and at some point more beer was drunk, and Clay began to wonder what had happened to Amy and Paul, if perhaps they had become disoriented, as sometimes happens at night, especially when you are flushed with youth and intoxicants.

As Clay started off up the beach, he heard a strange rustling in the undergrowth, but when he cast his flashlight over the bushes, he saw nothing, only the tight tendrils of sweet peas quivering in the breeze. He shook his head, dismissing the idea that the vines were moving on their own, and meandered on until he heard shouts and laughter, and realized that Amy and Paul had climbed back into the water to swim again.

It is perhaps easy to say what each of us would have done in this situation, but none of us were Clay Harper, who was suddenly filled with a stomach churning bitterness. It was this that distracted him as the tenor of the shouting changed, and it was the pounding of his heart and the sudden hot prickling feeling around his eyes which consumed him as Amy Tilly drifted beyond the breaking waves, feeling herself sucked out to sea.

Coastal currents are strange.

Sometimes they’re there, and sometimes they aren’t. And, always, there is a strong current which runs along the shoreline, quite close to shore, actually. Sometimes it rushes north, whispering about bikini-clad bodies and ceviche, and at other times, it veers south, bringing a rush of briny, cold water. By the time Amy reached this current, she was probably dead, sucked under by a rip tide and battered against the ocean floor, and she had inhaled enough water to sink below the surface of the ocean, so no one other than a few curious fish marked her passing.

By the time Paul realized that she had truly vanished and he clambered ashore, Clay had turned back to the fire, and he was sitting there with tight lips when Paul returned, alone, to tell the first story in the disappearance of Amy Tilly.

It was then that the argument began. Kristin wanted them to call the Coast Guard, the police, to rescue Amy, while pragmatic Sarah pointed out that Amy was probably already dead, and that the fact that they were all drinking would stand against them, especially if anyone thought to search the car, and found Paul’s weed. For Sarah, the choice was obvious; she didn’t want to jeopardize her acceptance into an expensive college, her financial aid, her life, and she fought vigorously against Kristin’s determined efforts to report the situation.

In the end, Sarah won, as fear often does in these situations, and the four concocted a plan and an alibi.

It was this that Paul Goodman and Clay Harper argued about while Sarah’s body was meticulously deconstructed in the morgue and the tendrils of the Harper’s garden shuddered around them. Clay’s desire to protect his sister was perhaps understandable, as was Paul’s guilt about the disappearance of Amy Tilly and their knowledge of the situation, and the situation might have been intractable if Kevin Carlisle hadn’t been riding Intifada down the alleys of the town that evening, taking advantage of the quiet to get used to the horse. Perhaps if the alley near the Harper house had been paved, instead of gravelled, the two boys would have heard the tell-tale clop of hooves, but they didn’t, and as a result Officer Carlisle could clearly hear the boys arguing.

As he understood the tone of the argument, his eyes widened, and he found himself facing a dilemma: to wit, where does one put arrestees on a horse?

While it’s true that history tends to be written by the victors, this is not always the case with biography, and it was fascinating to read a book about Rommel written by one of his wartime enemies only a short time after the war was over. Erwin Rommel really was a great general, and a superb military leader, and being able to read a book written by a contemporary about him was very cool. And even a bit thrilling, at times.

I actually didn’t know that much about Rommel before reading this book, because the Second World War isn’t really my area of focus; I’m much more interested in late 20th/early 21st century civil wars and insurgencies. Like most people (I hope) I know that the Second World War happened, I know who was involved, and I know about most of the major events and figures of the war, but I’m not familiar with them in detail.

Rommel was a formidable character, and reading Young’s account of his exploits, intertwined with the events of the war from a British perspective, really brought Rommel and his accomplishments to light. I have a soft spot, as we know, for reading books about wars written by the people who fought them, since I believe that they would have the most relevant thoughts on the subject, but I think it’s a bit unusual to find books about wartime enemies. Churchill didn’t write a biography of Hitler. Clark didn’t profile Milosevic. You get the picture.

Young didn’t sugarcoat either side of the war, pointing out faults and problems with both sides, and for that, I give him credit. I thought the book was a pretty balanced and accurate assessment of the events of the war, which must have been a challenging thing to do with the events of the war looming so large in everyone’s memory.

Demographics:

Rommel: The Desert Fox, by Desmond Young. Published 1950, 250 pages. Biography.

Can you believe that I’d never read The Maltese Falcon? I certainly couldn’t, given that it’s, you know. A classic. And I even wrote a paper in college about the movie version. I even dug up a copy, which somehow managed to weather several changes of computer, just to peek at it (if you ask nicely, maybe I’ll post it). Intriguingly, it’s an analysis of the use of smoking in the film, with choice lines like: “The two enter a scuffle when Cairo attempts to search Spade’s office (Spade, of course, smoking all the while—Cairo is clearly not man enough to necessitate an extinguishment of the cigarette). At the end of the fight, Cairo takes something out of his billfold and begins to chew it—perhaps gum, hardly a masculine pursuit.”

Anyway, smoking in the film noir genre aside, there’s a reason this book is a classic, and it’s because it’s really, really good. Sam Spade is a character who really comes alive, and almost seems to walk off the page and start lounging on my furniture. I also loved the bits and pieces of 1920s San Francisco littered throughout the book.

The detective genre is, I grant you, quite venerable, but Hammett is a master of it. He created a compelling story with scenes and characters so interesting that it was made into a film, and parodied in a multitude of ways in the following decades. It’s a sparse, clean writing style, much like Sam Spade himself, and I’ve been reading so much flowery prose lately that it was awesome to just clear my head.

I finished The Maltese Falcon and felt like someone had just vacuumed all the cobwebs out of my brain, and run a dustcloth over it, just for good measure. It was…refreshing. And now I feel like I should be swanning about in a flapper dress with my hair plastered to my head and a single dashing curl.

Demographics:

The Maltese Falcon, by Dashiell Hammett. Published 1929, 225 pages. Fiction.

I’m a big fan of Russians, and of historical fiction, so I was pretty excited when I realized that this book was set in 19th century Russia. And, as it turns out, the main character was awesome, and I promptly ordered a bunch of other books in the series as soon as I finished this one. I loved the style in which the book was written, the way the characters developed, and the story, which was international in scope.

I don’t want to go giving things away, in case you read this book, but I have to say that I really liked the structure, and the way it ended. The main character was a sort of bumbling detective who somehow managed to stay out of trouble with the assistance of sheer luck, which caused me to muse about what it is that we love bumbling detectives so very much. It was also quite fun to see him come to realizations many pages after I did.

Apparently this author is a big hit in Russia, and I can see why. I’m glad that his works are filtering over to us in translation, because I haven’t read much modern Russian fiction, and there’s a distinctive character and flavor about his work which is simply delicious.

Demographics:

The Winter Queen, by Boris Akunin. Translated by Andrew Bromfield. Published 2003, 244 pages. Fiction.

I’ve been digesting Mr. Obama’s comments on late term abortions for some time now, and I finally feel prepared to talk about them. First, I had to get through my initial phase of incandescent rage and fury, and then I had to move through the sadness until I could reach a state of neutrality which would allow me to comment without excessive rancor and bile.

Just so we’re all clear, he’s what he said, in response to a question from an interviewer for a Christian magazine who asked him to clarify his position on late term abortions:

Obama: I absolutely can, so please don’t believe the emails. I have repeatedly said that I think it’s entirely appropriate for states to restrict or even prohibit late-term abortions as long as there is a strict, well-defined exception for the health of the mother. Now, I don’t think that “mental distress” qualifies as the health of the mother. I think it has to be a serious physical issue that arises in pregnancy, where there are real, significant problems to the mother carrying that child to term. Otherwise, as long as there is such a medical exception in place, I think we can prohibit late-term abortions.

And, let me say right off the top, props to Obama for calling a late term abortion a late term abortion, rather than using the entirely invented term “partial birth abortion” developed by the Republicans specifically for the purpose of making it controversial.

Just to clarify, he added:

“…it’s not just a matter of feeling blue” when discussing “mental health” for pregnant women.

Yeah, because women who get late term abortions are just feeling blue. Oh, or maybe they’re just tired of feeling pregnant, so they figure, what the heck, let’s just get an abortion and start over again. Or they were lazy, and they didn’t realize they were pregnant until it was too late.

Now, I’ve never been pregnant, so I am treading on thin ground here, but I would venture a guess that many women who have been pregnant would agree with me when I say that Obama’s comments demonstrate shocking ignorance and unbelievable callousness.

Women do not get late term abortions because they are feeling blue, although depression in pregnancy does happen, and it can be debilitating. It might come as a shock to Mr. Obama to learn this, but getting an abortion to treat depression would, uhm, not actually solve the problem. In fact, it would probably make it worse. Women who struggle with depression in pregnancy do indeed need medical attention and care, but for some reason, “abortion” isn’t on the list of treatment options. And to dismiss the very serious mental health problems associated with pregnancy for some women is rather shortsighted.

The vast majority of women who get late term abortions get them because medical testing reveals that the fetus has birth defects which are “incompatible with life,” which is a nice way of saying that the fetus doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of living. And yeah, that information would make pretty much anyone “feel blue,” but that’s not why those women choose to get abortions. Instead, they terminate the pregnancy because they recognize that carrying the pregnancy to term is pointless, and it would be emotionally grueling. And that decision is not taken lightly, and it is not enjoyable.

When a fetus has severe birth defects, they don’t always show up on early scans. And, sometimes, they can cause the fetus to die, potentially creating an infection in the mother which could, yes, threaten her life, qualifying her for the “health exception” holy grail.

Over the last week, I have read a lot of very sad and personal stories by women who have received late term abortions. They weren’t “feeling blue.” They weren’t tired of being pregnant. On the contrary, they were really excited to be pregnant, and looking forward to the births of their children. The decision to abort was not casual, and the experience was not pleasant.

I think that Mr. Obama could benefit from some compassion and education before he runs his mouth off on a topic he is clearly ill-informed about. Hey, you can’t expect people to know everything, and that’s ok. But when you’re running for President, it’s a good idea to learn some statistics*, and to talk with your constituency. If Mr. Obama reads any of these stories, I think he will come away with a very different perspective on the late term abortion issue.

The proposed health exception is dangerous, as are laws which require multiple medical opinions. All of these laws require pregnant women to jump through hoops during a very emotional and fragile time. Yes, by all means, women should see genetic counselors before getting a late term abortion, and they should be encouraged to seek out a second opinion from an experienced ob/gyn, and in fact most do, because their doctors refer them to experts because they aren’t equipped to deal with the situation. But women should not be forced to give birth to children which are going to die within minutes of birth, because that is just messed up. A hard choice should not be made harder to satisfy some obscure mental block in the mind of a politician who will never be forced to make that choice.

At least, I think so.

*According to our good friends at Wikipedia, 1.4% of abortions are performed after 21 weeks, which would qualify them as “late.” Of those, a little over a thousand abortions each year are carried out after 24 weeks, when the fetus could potentially be viable.

The funeral industry in Seattle is in the process of shifting, thanks to companies like SCI, and this Stranger article is quite interesting, even for those who do not live in Seattle.

Victims from the “Battle of Genoa” still haven’t received justice. Will they ever?

English roses are being revived, which is awesome, because English roses rock. Yay roses!

For the last year, the San Diego CityBeat has been profiling homeless people in the community. The editors reflect on how the project worked out.

Radical living in a Christian communal house? I wasn’t aware that communal households were “radical.”

Firestorm on the left if Obama loses in November? I’m not so sure; but if it happens, I hope the Democrats learn their lesson this time.

In Maine, a pet crematorium is reinventing the way we handle animal remains, giving owners an option to hold respectful, personalized services for their pets. Very cool.