What are you reading?

There's a podcast called What Are You Reading, hosted by the clever and funny Matt Debenham, and I would tell you to subscribe even if I hadn't made an appearance. I did, however. So you listen to my episode right now, do you hear me? And then listen to the others. Clear your schedule!

We covered all kinds of book-related topics, including my favorite books from every year since I was ten, and I got so swept up in our witty repartee that I completely forgot about Judy Blume. I may never forgive myself. I know Judy Blume will never forgive me. Or maybe I read them before I was ten? I was awfully sophisticated.

As we discuss on the podcast, I read a lot and this makes me feel pretty superior, but immediately upon completion of each book the memory of it exits my brain. I fear that I'm less brilliant than I tell people I am. I try to recommend books, and it's a joke.  You should read this book. Because it's good, that's why. It's about a guy who does stuff. I don't know. This thing happens in it. I think he wears a shirt. I once got to the last sentence of a book (Housekeeping by Marilynn Robinson, if you must know) and realized I had read it before. The last sentence. What about that last sentence jogged my memory, I'll never know. It wasn't "You already read this, dumbass." I now remember Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson because it is The Book I Forgot Until The Last Sentence. Also, stuff happens in it.

When Matt interviewed me I was reading The Moviegoer, by Walker Percy, which I had read in the early nineties and remembered only that I used to list it among my favorite books, and when I reread it I was worried about early-nineties me. That book is bleak as shit. It's a good thing early-nineties me doesn't exist anymore. We also talked about John Irving, so afterward I was inspired to reread A Prayer for Owen Meany, another book I couldn't remember except for a vague sense of approval. Oh, and Owen Meany was a small person. Not to mention, something something sports. And: war.

I liked it again, mostly. But why, John Irving, why you gotta italicize so many words? When your writing is strong enough that you don't require it? It puzzles and distracts me. I hope you've learned to control your italicizing tendencies, award-winning writer who doesn't give a hoot what I think.

Okay, look. I'm done addressing John Irving. He's not reading this blog! In the podcast, you get to hear how we met. Then dated. It gets pretty explicit. (We never even hugged. Although we shook hands for a while. Maybe a few seconds? It was intense, though. You could tell. His wife was in the room. She was into it. I don't know what I mean by any of this.) He interviewed me for a job as his live-in assistant, and I did not get said job, the end. Reality is so disappointing.

Seriously, though. What are you reading? Besides this blog post, smartypants.