Unfortunately I decided to read these in the oversized hardcover editions, which are beautiful, but they take so very long to come out. I read the first Chew Omnivore volume a year and a half ago, so I was very excited when this was finally released.

The series follows Tony Chu, an FDA agent tasked with tracking down black market chicken, which became illegal after a serious avian flu outbreak that killed millions. He’s also a Cibopath – someone who can get a sense of the history of anything he eats, which leads him to eat many an unsavory item. As he continues his investigations, an underlying mystery is slowly forming. Also, weird space stuff!

This is definitely my favourite ongoing comic series right now, of the few I read. I felt like it took a bit of a dip near the end of the last collection, but this one picked right up and stayed great until the end. The plot does start to go a little crazy, even more than usual, but I don’t really read these for the tightly-plotted story. I read them because they’re hilarious and well written with fantastic art.

Rob Guillory’s character designs are just great. I particularly love his expressions and his attention to detail. He always fills his panels with funny little extras for those who take their time.

Definitely recommended, and I will be eagerly awaiting the next Omnivore volume, which hopefully won’t be another two years coming.

This is the second of four Sherlock Holmes novels. The only one I’d read previously was the third, The Hound of the Baskervilles, so it appears I’ll be reading these in the most bizarre order I can manage. This does make a few references to A Study in Scarlet, I believe, but it doesn’t seem like the order in the series matters all that much.

After annually receiving a mysterious and incredibly valuable pearl in the mail for the past six years, Mary Morstan was delivered a letter asking her to finally meet the unknown sender. He had some information on her father, who had gone missing years ago. The letter asked that she not involve the police, but she was still able to enlist the help of Holmes and Watson.

It turns out the pearls were from a treasure that her father had stolen while serving with the British East India Company (similar to Wilkie Collins’ The Moonstone) and it’s now been passed down to her. But wait! Murder! Robbery! Mysteries to be solved!

Unlike Baskervilles, in which Watson acted alone for the most part, we get to follow Sherlock for the entirety of the novel. Having him around for the whole story was both an advantage and a detriment, I think. I enjoy his character being involved (although Watson can really become a kiss-ass in his company, at times), but I think he’s too perfect in a way. The story becomes much too straight-forward, with no red herrings and no real mystery. Sherlock knew who did it and then he catches him. At least in Baskervilles, not having Sherlock around allowed us to try and piece together the mystery and make mistakes before he arrived at the end to Scooby-Doo the culprit.

The last thirty pages of the book consists of a character describing how the treasure came into his possession. It was a very strange choice, I thought, to essentially tie-up the mystery and end with such a large chunk of back-story. It seemed like he could have come up with a slightly more elegant way of weaving that in.

Though not as much as the other Sherlock stories I’ve read, I did really enjoy this. Something about his writing just draws me in. I’ll eventually make my way through all the Sherlock stories, but it occurred to me while reading this that I really need to pick up The Lost World. I have a feeling I’ll love that.

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race!
Aboon them a’ yet tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o’a grace
As lang’s my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin was help to mend a mill
In time o’need,
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An’ cut you up wi’ ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin’, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit! hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckles as wither’d rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ blody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll mak it whissle;
An’ legs an’ arms, an’ hands will sned,
Like taps o’ trissle.

Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer
Gie her a haggis!

– Robert Burns, Address to the Haggis

The girl with dark hair was coming towards them across the field. With what seemed a single movement she tore off her clothes and flung them disdainfully aside. Her body was white and smooth, but it aroused no desire in him, indeed he barely looked at it. What overwhelmed him in that instant was admiration for the gesture with which she had thrown her clothes aside. With its grace and carelessness it seemed to annihilate a whole culture, a whole system of thought, as though Big Brother and the Party and the Thought Police could all be swept into nothingness by a single splendid movement of the arm. That too was a gesture belonging to the ancient time. Winston woke up with the word ‘Shakespeare’ on his lips.

– George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four

I really like the Dalai Lama. I never thought I would, to be honest, but the more I read from him the more I see he’s someone with a real grounding in reality and science. I suppose my vision of him has been skewed somewhat by middle-class, new-agey white folk selling cancer-healing crystals at $60 a pop, but there’s definitely sincerity and real intelligence behind his advice.

[...] as the peoples of the world become ever more closely interconnected in an age of globalization and in multicultural societies, ethics based in any one religion would only appeal to some of us; it would not be meaningful for all. In the past, when peoples lived in relative isolation from one another — as we Tibetans lived quite happily for many centuries behind our wall of mountains — the fact that groups pursued their own religiously based approaches to ethics posed no difficulties. Today, however, any religion-based answer to the problem of our neglect of inner values can never be universal, and so will be inadequate. What we need today is an approach to ethics which makes no recourse to religion and can be equally acceptable to those with faith and those without: a secular ethics.

Beyond Religion is about viewing ethics from a secular understanding, that religion, while helpful to many, is not necessary for living a compassionate and moral life. It covers his view on approaching ethics through an understanding of everyone’s shared humanity, our shared aspiration to happiness and avoidance of suffering, which I know sounds like a wishy-washy load of nonsense, but he manages to articulate it in a way that’s both interesting and a bit inspiring.

He finishes with introducing the basics of meditation and mindfulness. I always thought of meditation as purely a device for relaxation, and never really gave it much consideration beyond that. He presents it more as taking a time-out during the day to focus on cultivating your inner values and ridding yourself of destructive emotions, and I do like the idea of that.

Oh god, I’m starting to sound like such a dirty hippie.

One of the key points I took away from The Art of Happiness was the idea that your emotions aren’t the result of someone else’s actions, but a result of how you choose to react to those actions. No one can make you angry; you choose to react with anger, and when you do so, you’re essentially making the choice to feel shitty. When coupled with making a conscious effort to understand the motivations of others and finding a way to relate, the thought actually does help calm me down, so I could certainly see how putting aside time each day to concentrate on reminding oneself to let go of emotionally debilitating thoughts could be very beneficial.

I listened to the Audible recording for this, in which Martin Sheen was the narrator. He did a great job. He has that gentle, wise old man voice that fits quite well here.

This is the 20th Discworld novel, and in it the Hogfather has gone missing. It’s absolutely imperative that the children get their presents on Hogswatch morning, so Death takes up the mantle (or in this case, the red and white suit stuffed with a pillow). The fate of the Discworld may depend on him.

I always forget how much I love Terry Pratchett, and then I finally get around to reading another of his books, and I LOVE TERRY PRATCHETT. I thought I only read the beginning of Hogfather in high school, but about 200 pages in I finally realized I’d already read the entire thing. I was thinking oh right, that happens quite a bit during this. It was like an entire book length of déjà vu.

Getting an education was a bit like a communicable sexual disease. It made you unsuitable for a lot of jobs and then you had the urge to pass it on.

Even as a re-read, this was great. I tend to think of Pratchett as an enjoyable read, something quick and fun, but I always forget how sharp his satire is and how perfect his characters are. Thankfully I have 20+ books of his still to read.

“All right,” said Susan. “I’m not stupid. You’re saying that humans need … fantasies to make life bearable.”

Really? As if it was some kind of pink pill? No. Humans need fantasy to be human. To be the place where the falling angel meets the rising ape.

“Tooth fairies? Hogfathers? Little —”

Yes. As practice. You have to start out learning to believe the little lies.

“So we can believe the big ones?”

Yes. Justice. Mercy. Duty. That sort of thing.

“They’re not the same at all!”

You think so? Then take the universe and grind it down to the finest powder and sieve it through the finest sieve and then show me one atom of justice, one molecule of mercy. And yet — Death waved a hand. And yet you act as if there is some ideal order in the world, as if there is some … rightness in the universe by which it may be judged.

“Yes, but people have got to believe that, or what’s the point —”

My point exactly.

– Terry Pratchett, Hogfather

I expected to read a lot during the holidays. I was visiting my hometown, where I only really keep in touch with one friend, and I figured I’d be able to blast through quite a few books during my downtime, considering all of my time would be down. Unfortunately, I become obsessed with achieving Steam holiday objectives and barely read at all.

I did get through a couple of books, though, and A Christmas Carol was one of them. I grew up watching the Alastair Sim version of A Christmas Carol nearly every year with my dad. It’s the longest running of the few Christmas traditions we’ve had over the years. As a kid, my dad used to cancel Christmas at least once every year, one season we got up to six cancellations, and for a five-year stint we were forced to watch John Wayne movies every Christmas afternoon, but A Christmas Carol is really the only tradition to last into adulthood.

As part of the Audible Signature Classics, a series of audiobook productions on Audible in which famous actors lend their voices to the narration of classic literature, Tim Curry presents Dickens’ holiday novella. How could you go wrong there? Curry has one of the greatest voices, so his narration was obviously top-notch. It really enhanced the reading, I thought.

“You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato. There’s more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!”

I read half of Great Expectations when I was younger, and have been meaning to give it another try since. I remember reading that Dickens’ work was published in serial monthly installments that were required to be of a certain length, and as a result I spent my time identifying what I felt were extraneous descriptions rather than just enjoying it. A Christmas Carol is probably a much better introduction to Dickens anyway. It’s a short, familiar story that offers a quick taste of his interesting characters, hilarious wit, and loving use of the language. Reading this got me a little excited to move on to some of his longer works.

“If I could work my will,” said Scrooge indignantly, “every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!”

Hope everyone had a great holiday!

I must have watched this movie half a dozen times in my last year of high school, against my will. I enjoyed it at first, but enough is enough you stoner high-schoolers. We don’t need to watch this at every social gathering.

It’s been over a decade now, so I felt it was safe to have a peek at the novel. I actually don’t remember much of the movie anymore (somehow), and I went in thinking this was entirely fiction. After reading the Wikipedia page just now, I see that it’s actually an autobiographical account of two seperate Vegas trips merged into one and wrapped in a “fictional framework”. We know his two reasons for being in Vegas were real, but everything else seems to be up in the air.

So, the plot. It’s not really about plot, and as a result there really isn’t much of one. It’s split into two parts. In the first part, journalist Raoul Duke and his attorney, Dr. Gonzo, head to Vegas to cover the Mint 400, an off-road desert race, for Sports Illustrated. They make a brief appearance at the race, but mainly spend the time getting high in their hotel room. For the second half of the book, they’re asked to stick around and cover the National District Attorneys Association’s Conference on Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs. This half is more lively, as they spend time mingling with the conference patrons and searching the city for the American Dream.

American Dream? Wasn’t that an old discotheque? I think it’s closed down now.

What makes me think this book is more fiction than fact is that everything goes perfectly. Pretty much every situation and conversation they find themselves in goes about as well as it possibly could, everything from getting pulled over by a cop with a car full of drugs and weapons, so stoned he’s unaware of the beer still in his hand, to attacking a maid while nude in a freshly-destroyed hotel room that was registered under a real name. The idea of them being able to weasel out of every situation, whether with wit or luck, seems like the fantasy of a stoner who quietly locked himself in a hotel room for a week and didn’t bother anyone.

But it is fun, I will give you that. And hilarious at times. He seems to perfectly capture the atmosphere of being off your head and up for anything in a wild town in the middle of a desert. The illustrations by Ralph Steadman were a nice addition too. This is my first read of Thompson’s, the man who invented Gonzo journalism, so I am interested in reading some of his other work. I like his writing style, and I’d like to see it applied to something I know is real.

The goal is to read only books from your to-read list for the first three months of next year. I could probably read from mine for the entirety of 2012 and be quite happy, so I don’t foresee any issues there. I might stray from this challenge for audio-books, as I don’t have a to-listen list, but I’ll stick to it for the dead-tree books. I may even pick up the audio version for a couple of the long-standing to-reads in an attempt to clear some of that list.