My mother knows I love books, but she doesn’t exactly know what kind of books I like. That is how I ended up with 4 James Patterson novels she picked up at a garage sale for 50 cents each. And here I am now thinking of the two double cheese burgers I could have gotten with that money instead.
I’ve only opened one so far, but the first few pages have provided me with much insight about the trashy novel genre. No, I’m serious. I tried to read a bit further than page 10 but I was doubled over with laughter and had to excuse myself from the room. When I finally recovered I just knew I had to write about it.
Listen, there’s one useful thing to do with a trashy novel. No, not burn it, though that is the second useful thing to do. The first useful thing to do is to mock it. Trashy novels are like bad movies, they’re only entertaining if you can make sarcastic remarks to someone else while reading them. Here are a few excerpts from “The Beach House” (my comments in italics):
“IT’S LIKE DANCING SITTING DOWN. Squeeze – tap – release -twist. Left hand – right foot – left hand – right hand.
First of all, WHY ARE YOU YELLING AT ME, JAMES PATTERSON?! DON’T MAKE ME TAKE THAT CAPS LOCK AWAY FROM YOU! Second, “squeeze”? What are you squeezing? Your buttocks? The chair (with your buttocks)? WHAT? And then you twist it? How does that work, exactly? It’s like a failed attempt at a metaphor slash onomatopeia slash life.
“My knees are pressed tight against the sleek, midnight blue gas tank, my head tucked so low out of the wind that it’s almost between them.”
Someone call the police! There’s some crazy guy out on the highway driving with his head almost between his knees! Geez, and they still won’t give ME a license, and I drive with my head up and my eyes on the road.
“Or maybe it’s got nothing to do with the bike, and I’m just getting old. I’m sorry to have to confess, I turned twenty-one yesterday.”
I suppose I should start planning my funeral. I’m 23, after all. One foot in the grave, you know.
“Still, it wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I entered Columbia Law School at the advanced age of twenty-six.”
What the fuck is wrong with these people, who think they’re so fucking old in their twenties?
“What gave her such style was the way the simplicity of everything else in her appearance contrasted with her tattoo. Rather than a discreet, dainty turtle or butterfly, Pauline had the indelible mark of the Chrysler Building on her right arm.”
Oooooh, a tatoo! Slutty! Enticing!
“When I asked her why she felt so strongly about a skyscraper, her brown eyes flashed as if to say I didn’t get it. ‘It’s about people choosing to make something so beautiful,’ she said. ‘Plus, my grandfather worked on a Chrysler assembly line for thirty-eight years. I figured he helped build it.'”
Is it just me, or is that a very stupid reason to get a tatoo? I like beautiful things my ancestors helped build, too, and you don’t see me permanently carving the ruins of Chichen Itza on my arm, when I can just type them into Google images and see them any time I want.
To be continued, assuming I decide to keep reading further into this amazing story. Almost a certainty, given how bored I am these days. I can use the funnies.