Disturbing Neighbors

One book really disturbed the crap out of me as a child. That would be Thomas Berger's Neighbors. To be honest, I don't remember a lot about it. I remember being aware of the book because I saw the trailer for the movie adaptation that was coming out starring Dan Aykroyd. I got my parents to buy the book for me at that time, so I was ten or eleven years of age when I read it. The feelings of chaos and disjointed reality that it caused me are feelings I remember to this day, though I can't recall key points of the plot. All I really remember about it is that one family is having a hell of a time with the new couple who moved in next door. There is vandalism (I think), sexual flirtation (I think), and a feeling of insanity that runs through the novel (I'm certain). 

I actually went and found the paperback version of the book I once owned and rebought it . . . with the intention of giving it another read. I haven't done so yet, though, because I'm afraid it won't live up to the uneasy feelings it caused decades ago. I'm far older now and understand more about life, and I don't want that precious, uncomfortable memory to be erased by all that. I don't want to ruin what was such a monumental thing. The Shining made me want to be a writer. Neighbors made me question my sanity.

I will go back to the book someday. I will reread it. I probably won't be disturbed. Here's my secret hope, however: I want to be even more disturbed by it. I want to pick up things I was not able to understand as a child, and I want it to bother me. I'm sure it won't bother me as much as some of Peter Sotos' writing, but I still want to come away with having the feeling of my soul being shaken. I want to be moved. It did it once. It can do it again. I know it's labeled as a "comedy" in some circles, but comedy can be disturbing. Just watch the last Hangover movie if you don't believe me.

If it doesn't disturb me the next time around, though, that's okay, too. It's not great, but it's understandable. I won't be bitter. I won't throw the book into the fire and spit at it. It's not a James Patterson novel, so it doesn't deserve that fate. I will be disappointed, sure. But I'm disappointed by a lot of things I revisit from my youth. The mileage varies as the car gets older, right?

I'm crossing my fingers . . .

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A Threesome With the Wives: Readers Wives (The First Three)

 Oh, erotica, is there no subject you won't broach? Now even the sanctity of marriage is under attack by the first three books of the Readers [sic] Wives series, which has grown to be over 20 volumes! That's more than the erotic Harry Potter nonsense. (To be fair, however, that Harry Potter book was #61 of a series of unrelated themed erotica. Over 60 volumes of erotic Harry Potter? That's either a nightmare or your wildest fantasies depending on your age.) Now you may have heard of the boy wizard, but  have you ever heard of the Readers Wives series? No? Let me explain.

The books in this series are written by various authors (Heidi Flow, Candice Hocking, Mildred Bookings, and others) who may or may not be the same person. The writing style does not vary enough for me to be convinced these are separate people, but it does not matter. One writer writing under several different names is the norm in erotica and has been since . . . well, when people started writing erotica. The first three volumes each feature one longer story and then a few short ones dealing with (for the most part) wives. Wives who pose nude for other men. Wives blackmailed into have "relations" with multiple men at once. Wives trying to earn extra dough by doing both those things. There are lots of photos being taken and lots of well-lubricated feminine interiors throughout each book. And let's not leave out the husbands, who are getting penis extensions, or are aghast that they like what their wives are doing, or are utterly clueless as to what is going on for a bit. It is all in good, sticky fun, and because the British aren't too crass, these books come across as being a bit "higher class" than your normal erotica coming out of America or India. (I'm assuming the writers are British, as it definitely has enough terms to make me think so, but it does seem written for an American audience. After all, American husbands are well-known for wanting to see their wives with other men and women.)

You Know What I Mean

One unique story in the second volume, I believe (they all start to run together), features a female nudist in a wheelchair who hires a wife to clean her house naked. You can imagine what ensues. The story comes across as very natural (no pun intended) and actually very erotic. Other stories in the first three books do not share the same heightened originality, but have their moments of greatness, though if you are expecting more original stories or Harry Potter look elsewhere. There is a formula here, and the writers stick to it.

Will I continue on with the series? I downloaded a bunch of these when they were free, so I'll probably read those unless the series takes a nose-dive into Rod Polo-style erotica. Once they are read, however, I probably will not get any more. Not because I don't like them, but because I don't love them, and I have a lot of books to read before I die. I can also say that erotica about wives is not really my favorite subgenre, but if it is yours, you can do far worse than these. I think you would at least owe it to yourself to read the first two (despite the dopey looking cover of the first one with a model who looks like she had a bit role in an Adam Sandler goofy comedy). After that they all start to run together.

Wheelchair Loving!

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"Don't tell a soul you love this."

Red Hot Drug Addict

 I like old Red Hot Chili Peppers. Blood Sugar Sex Magik was the last good release as far as I'm concerned, and that's pushing my tolerance limit. In the past I've been able to see the band perform, and it was a damn fine show. When I read that Anthony Kiedis had written and published an autobiography called Scar Tissue I knew I had to read it. It came out in 2005. Only took me 16 years to get around to it. I could have waited 16 more.

I don't hate the book. It's just that it is the same old junkie story, but the cycle of addiction is fragmented by Hollywood stars, worldwide performances, and unamusing tales of what it was like to grow up with Kiedis' father. See Anthony at four years of age get pot smoke blown in his face by dear old dad! See a teen Anthony request to have sex with his dad's girlfriend . . . and dad obliges and seems to watch! See Anthony, not surprisingly, get hooked on drugs and lie to friends, family, and loved ones. Rinse and repeat. I used to find Kiedis to be an interesting singer with his own unique style. Now? Not so much.

Dennis Cooper has written this tale better and in a far more interesting manner. 

Maybe someday I can revisit this book with less judgmental eyes. Unfortunately, it's such a stale tale of woe, that I fear it will never seem fresh and exciting. It will always be a swamp of misfortune and needles. I've known too many junkies. Been lied to too many times. It doesn't matter if they are rich or poor. Functioning or not. It's always the same damn thing. Junkies poison that which they touch. It's not a miracle the Red Hot Chili Peppers lasted as long as they did. It's luck. Pure and simple. Dice were rolled. The result turned out to be positive. There are thousands of other dice rolls that end in public toilets with a needle stuck in the arm. Gruesome performance art to a live lived poorly.

There are lessons to be learned here. They are lessons you already know. Parents can fuck up their children. Drugs lead to destruction. Rock stars sleep with underage girls. This should have been more. Even at its most revealing, there is still so much hidden that you can't help but wonder if Kiedis is still lying to himself and others. The reveals don't reveal. The conceals do, however. The end result is more knee scrape than scar tissue. 

I no longer care much about the Red Hot Chili Peppers. The music is a comprised of memories. This book surely didn't rekindle a love affair, either. It just cemented my anger. Your mileage may differ.

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