Chess Is As Elaborate A Waste Of Human Intelligence As You Can Find Outside An Advertising Agency.

Chess is as elaborate a waste of human intelligence as you can find outside an advertising agency.

-- Raymond Chandler

The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler

After reading his biography, I wanted to go back and re-read all of Chandler's books chronologically, too. So that makes two authors I'm trying to read in their entirety, in order, at the same time. Fortunately I've allotted many, many hours to avoiding writing this summer, so it shouldn't be a problem.

Bad things about this book: Marlowe is a real jerk about gay people; the book (famously) fails to explain who killed the chauffeur; and it took me until this, my third or fourth reading, to really get a handle on the bewildering web of cause and effect that tie all these murders together. Chandler's biography points out that Chandler really couldn't care less about plot, and he's written stories where it's not even clear what physical actions are actually taking place. But that's okay, because the best thing about this book is that it's written more awesomely than anything ever, except maybe later Chandler novels.

liesandstatistics:

kneehigh, I see your Oliver and raise you a Hodgman and Darnielle.

(by Lalitree)

 Well, this is the greatest picture I never knew existed.

Kilmeny of the Orchard, by L.M. Montgomery

This was originally published as a serial, and in its completed form it's quite short. The whole thing is pure romantic melodrama: a wealthy, intelligent young man goes to teach in a rural town, and he falls in love with the most beautifullest girl ever EVER in the whole WORLD, Kilmeny. Two problems (SPOILERS): first, Kilmeny is mute, even though she can hear perfectly; second, Kilmeny's mother was crazy and never let her out into the world to see other people, and also she broke all the mirrors in the house and told Kilmeny she was ugly, even though Kilmeny is the most exquisite thing in the entire world EVER. You'd think Kilmeny would have crippling psychological problems, but fortunately once her boyfriend buys her a mirror and shows her how ethereally gorgeous she is, she's fine.

There's an even more alarmingly racist subplot in this one, where Kilmeny's guardians take in an abandoned Italian baby and raise it as their own. He grows up to fall in love with Kilmeny and gets super-upset when this rich handsome white guy shows up and declares he loves her. His "uncouthness" is blamed squarely on his innate Italian-ness overcoming his Christian upbringing, and his guardians regret bringing him up in such a way that he "forgets his place." Ughhh.

So yeah, there wasn't a lot to redeem this one. I guess I can't complain that something written as melodrama is "too melodramatic," but come on, the guy who falls in love with a girl who can't speak just happens to be best friends with a throat doctor. I mean, COME ON, right?

This article crystallizes a lot of the problems I had with the Lost finale (and really, all of Season 6). A lot of people have defended the finale by saying it focused on the characters, not the mysteries, but even in that respect it was lackluster -- the writing in S6 turned nearly all the characters into thinnest cardboard. Only Ben and Fake Locke managed to overcome the tepid writing, and that's only because Michael Emerson and Terry O'Quinn are so good at what they do.

rubadub:

Oh No, The Radio.

Owlsey

I just saw on Last Plane to Jakarta that Will Owsley died yesterday, apparently suicide. I didn't know he was a part of Amy Grant's touring band or that he was a well-regarded Nashville musician, but I loved the catchy power-pop album he put out circa 2000. "Oh No The Radio" was the bumper music for an L.A. radio show and I thought the opening guitar riff was the greatest thing, so I tracked it back to his self-titled album and put it on the minidisc I reserved for only the awesomest of songs. When my family drove up to Oregon one summer, I played this for them and waited with giddy expectancy to hear how much they loved it. But they didn't remark on it one way or the other and I was bitter about it from Redding to Grants Pass.

Knowing so little about him, the name "Owsley" has always conjured up this vague sense-memory of summer and happiness and the opening riff to this song. To find out that he was hurting like this is heartbreaking.