Swing....and a miss.

I know you were all waiting to hear stories of my first "Swingers Night" at the Olde Un Theater. Well, sadly, I must report those quotes may indeed be ironic. Not much happened.

To be fair, I didn't work in the theater portion of the store. The retail side ran pretty hot and cold, probably due to some shatty (that's right not shitty, but shatty) weather. Plus everyone knows swingers turn into gremlins if they eat before midnight, or something. I don't know. All I do know is I've seen more debauchery at....something one would presume to be less debaucherous. Happily enough, I did have some big-ticket sales in the store.

And most importantly, I sold my first strap-on to cute lesbians. How did I know they were lesbians. Three clues my friends: Birkenstocks, pierced noses and your god, I can still smell the patchouli.

So with no real tales of semi-public fucking amongst the dregs of mid-Missouri society, I feel compelled to provide some alternate service to each one of you. Here comes:

I recently finished reading "Snow Falling on Cedars" by David Guterson. Having worked in bookstores for a quite a while, I'd been aware of the Pen Award winner for some time, but had not really thought about reading it until it was given to me for Christmas by Brook's folks.

I gotta say folks this book is really well written. The story surrounds a murder trial on a small island off the Washington State coast in the years just following World War II. The war and the internment of Japanese nationals play roles in the backstory, as lingering racism and unresolved pre-war disputes lead to the accusation of a Japanese-American and long-time island resident, but the real enjoyment here is how Guterson writes his people and places.

My biggest problem with most fiction rarely centers around a story, as I am generally able to suspend disbelief. When I tear a book apart (usually figuratively but every now and then literally) it is because I can't buy into the characters or the dialogue. Guterson has written very real people saying very real things. No matter what era or social setting you grew up in, it is easy to imagine having known people like the ones he has been able to write.

Even more impressive is the way he is able to set his scenes. You can smell the cedar of the trees and feel the snow hitting your face as he takes you a tour of the small fishing and farming community in which his story is set. You can taste the fruit from the strawberry and raspberry farms. (Which was actually a slight drawback for me personally as I do not care for raspberries, but Jeff abides.) You can also feel the tension surrounding his characters as the trial moves closer and closer to its seeming inevitable conclusion.

Okay, copyright notice here. The following in italics is Guterson...not me, though I'm sure the similarities between he and I will be obvious.

San Piedro men learned to be silent. Occasionally, though, and with enormous relief, they communicated with one another on the docks at dawn. Though tired and still busy, they spoke from deck to deck of what had happened during the night and of things only they could understand. The intimacy of it, the comfort of other voices giving credence to their private myths, prepared them to meet their wives with less distance than they might otherwise bring home after fishing. In short, they were lonely men and products of geography --- island men who on occasion recognized that they wished to speak but couldn't.

Good stuff.

I can't recommend this book enough. It is not faced paced with its action, but is very readable and does not leave you with the empty feeling so much of today's mass-market fiction often does with no apparent conscience.