Brendan's Birthday Blog

Back and better than ever...Following through on that not-so-forgotten (anymore at least) promise. To those of you who are NOT Brendan: you should read the books too. I'm an absolute genius when it comes to these matters.

Whether you remember or not, I promised you a list of books to read for your birthday. The list got shorter, and then I made it longer again. Why? Because I'm in charge here and I want everyone to know it. Here's the list, in the order I liked best:

• Shogun. James Clavell. Oh wait! You already finished that one. This is my way of celebrating that milestone with you. YAY!
• Fury. Salman Rushdie. The book I was crying about the first time you came over to talk to me at five percent. When you're finished you can help me write that essay about the truth of the progress narrative and anti-Emersonianism. Because I know you are dying to hear more about that. Just like the rest of the world.
• The Salmon of Doubt. Douglas Adams. Odd essays and other non-fiction by the author of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. There's a really weird story about some dogs, and how dogs don't understand loyalty the way that people do. Dogs don't think like people?? WHO KNEW?? You can read the guide too if you like.
• I Know this Much is True. Wally Lamb. Long, but moving. It's about being the identical twin of a schizophrenic. It hammers home the issues of essentialism and constructivism even though it only really mentions that idea once. Actually, it's just another good tear-jerker.
• The Sun Also Rises. Ernest Hemmingway. I hear it's about impotence. I thought it was about love. "Isn't it pretty to think so?" That'll make sense if you read the book.
• The Satanic Verses. Salman Rushdie. You gotta love contraversy, don't you? I highly doubt you'll be able to borrow my copy though: Shane bought me a first edition hard cover for my birthday because it's bad form to buy kahlua and sidekicks for the love of your life.
• Moby Dick. Herman Melville. Just kidding. It's torture. But I finally finished it.
• A Fine Balance. Rohinton Mistry. Indian politics in the 70s. Since oversimplifying is one of my strong suits. It's another big book though. And I think I may have lost my copy.
• The DaVinci Code. Dan Brown. Because I hated it and I want someone to share that hate with. Everyone I talk to about it (other than Mrs. Jobe) thinks I'm nuts for wanting to watch it burn. You will probably love it and then I can reassert the fact that the world hates to agree with me.
• With Every Mistake. Gwynne Dyer. After you finish the one I mailed to you. You should read War too. If I knew when I was shopping for your present that you would enjoy Dyer that much I would have got that one instead.
• "Socioeconomic Integration in Major Barbara." That's the essay I wrote that you still haven't looked at.
• Robinson Crusoe. Daniel Defoe. So that I don't have to. Actually I read the illustrated version once...
• Whylah Falls. George Eliot Clarke. Because we all need some poetry in our life. If you won't read Whylah Falls at least read Blue. Better yet: read them both.
• From Ink Lake. Compiled by Michael Ondaatje. Canadian short stories. My favourite is called "The Lake" by Joe Rosenblatt. I've had the book for about 5 years and never finished it because all I want to do is read that one story.
• Things Fall Apart. Chinua Achebe. After you finish it, you can read my insightful essay on how Aristotelian analysis fails with non-European and non-North American fiction. My Theocrit prof went on a mild rant about this after he read my response paper. I hid in the back and tried not to cry. Or you can just enjoy the book.
• The Buenos Aires Affair. Manuel Puig. Everyone dies. But they deserve to because they're all addicts and sex fiends. The girl falls in love with the guy that kidnapped her to rape her. You can consider the problem of consent in abusive relationships while you read it. I sure did.
• Bushworld and The Best in American Crime Writing. You have the authors' names because these are the books I gave you. I only read a bit of each, but I trust you to tell me how they turn out in the end.
• Go Down, Moses. William Faulkner. Mostly because the bookstore won't take it back and I have no time to read it.
• On Bullshit. Harry G. Frankfurt finds a way to define the difference between lying and bullshitting, following the epistomological roots of the two words and coming to a shocking and revolutionary conclusion.
• In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. Kim Cooper. Because Rory talks about it non-stop. It's still not in print yet. In the meantime you can evidently just listen to the album.
• War Trash. Ha Jin. You can't read it until I finish it though.
• The Prison Notebooks. Antonio Gramsci. Oh, hegemony. You will love this as a follow up to Marx. I told you about it once before and you just gave me confused looks. At least my cult studs class was good for something--confusing you. Muahaha.
• Imperial Ambitions. Noam Chomsky. Just for kicks.
• Step Across this Line. Salman Rushdie's collection of non-fiction. I had no idea "The Wizard of Oz" had so much history. You might have to fight with Jean for it. Last I heard it was keeping her hamster in her cage. That is a really weird sentence.
• Mythologies. Roland Barthes. Talk about reading too much into everything. It's hilarious, but I don't think it's supposed to be.

And that's all for now. See how I kept it short and sweet and then came back and added more? Everything that I wrote after that question doesn't make sense any more. Do you remember what I wrote? You said it was ingrained in your memory. Liars exhaust me.

And now, in Weinist tradition, I better make the list of reasons to celebrate your birth (like anyone ever needed an excuse):

• The look on your face when you stumbled into your party. It was not just surprised. You were dumbfounded.
• Your name alliterates so well with this topic. And you know how I love to alliterate. BBB...that's so awesome.
• Your mom says I'm a good influence on you. Maybe that's a reason to love your mom, but you came out of her so my statement stands. I like to believe I am. After all, look at that list of books I made for you.
• That time you made me watch the Corporation. On top of that, the way you got so excited when you thought I was going to burst into tears at the horrendousness of life. So compassionate of you.
• Your consistent refusal to take any of the blame for my problems. Like when I tried to tell you that I would have finished Uncle Tom's Cabin back in August if you didn't make fun of me for reading it in the first place. Or the way you told me that if I went blind from trying to read it in one night you wouldn't care.
• You used to dance to make me feel better at work. You're a terrible dancer. It's one of my favourite things in the whole world.
• The only day I really wanted to do your work for you was the day you refused to let me. You have a spitefulness in you that you're not even fully aware of. Plus, I think you thought you were being nice.
• You hate to lose any argument. And everything is an argument. That one day that we sat and debated for two hours you followed me to the washroom so that you could keep fighting with me. In all fairness, it was a five minute walk and you made some excellent points along the way.
• The way you congratulate me for the randomest acts in the history of the world. You'll have to figure that one out for yourself.
• The way you lied to me about your age until you found out I was younger than you. I spent like 3 hours trying to figure out why you couldn't drink in the states when you'd just told me you were 24. Very confusing. Very sneaking. Very unnecessary.
• Your devotion to the hot tub. It is so central to your life, and yet, it is never ever working.
• You taught me how to cope. Well, you gave me a book from the 80s that made fun of stuff. And that got me through most of October.
• Your inability to understand Table Fries or their revolutionary traits. They are so much more than strips of fried potato, comrad.
• Your insistence that I was jealous. I'm pretty sure I just wanted to tell you that you should protect me from "those people trying to make me smoke things I didn't want to" in the Buick. And that the Buick scared the crap out of me.
• The essays you want me to proofread for you. First, they weren't that bad and you knew it. And second, I happen to love the highlighter plan. I'm using the highlighter next time FYI.
• The stress card that you carry around with you. And more than that, the fact that you couldn't find it when you thought I was going to give myself a stroke over something at work. I thought you were looking for chocolate. I wish you were looking for chocolate. I really wish chocolate didn't give me migraines.
• Green apple vodka in green apple crush. You're so innovative.
• Your complete and utter lack of faith in me. Or your complete denial of the aforementioned lacking.
• Your undying gratitude. I spent weeks trying to find you the perfect gift and you reduce it to my ongoing conspiracy to sabotage your attention to schoolwork. Plus, when I told you I spent almost two days trying to find Mein Kampf for you, you just laughed at me because I was afraid to ask Mr. Pickwick for the Hitler book.
• Your love for my bitterness. No one else in the whole world is as amused about my eagerness to witness my own demise. You can't wait to see me go down in flames. I happen to hope that you are looking up at me as I plummet.

And that, my friend, is that. If you call it "nice" ever again...well, just don't. I hope your birthday was everything you hoped it could be, and then some. I hope you never let anybody read this without my written consent. Oh, I know it's posted on the Internet. And finally, for the second time today: Happy birthday one last time. I'm down in all my fears but I ain't crying no tears...over you. Know what I'm singing? Convert.