My daughter loves candy. I would say she has a passion for candy. She also has a passion for heavy machinery and tickling. But, I would say her passion for candy far surpasses all others. Her passion for candy makes me reflect on my lifelong passion for sweets. My mother is a saintly woman who has done many, many things to shape me into the pillar of awesomeness that society at large loves and adores. She, perhaps unwittingly, fueled my passion for candy when I was a child by leaving small treats on the table nearly every day after school. The treats ranged from the sublime (Cherry Clan, Gobstoppers) to the grotesque (NECCO wafers). But without fail they were always there.
(A quick aside. The interweb machine is a magical thing. I've been lamenting the demise of the Cherry Clan for years. A quick internet search revealed that the Cherry Clan became the Cherryhead sometime in the 90's. I say shenanigans. I've had a Cherryhead and it's not the same. The formula may be the same, but the amazing Cherry Clan box must have imbued the candy with magical powers that the Cherryhead just doesn't possess.)
On special occasions my mom would put out Hostess treats after school. My favorite Hostess treat was the Chocodile. I didn't eat as may Chocodiles as a kid as I would have liked, which is probably a good thing, seeing as it is basically a Twinkie coated in brown wax. I'm sure the Hostess people will claim that the wax in question is chocolate, but I know what chocolate tastes like and the Chocodile contains no chocolate. Not that the wax is a bad thing. The wax actually serves to dull the sweetness of the Twinkie, resulting in a more mild albeit chemically enhanced (which is really saying something for a Hostess snack) eating experience. The market down the street from my home sells Chocodiles and I purchase one from time to time, mostly for nostalgic reasons. Truth be told, the Chocodile is not particularly good. Zingers, which are coated in a chocolate wax frosting of much higher quality, are much better. I even think that I knew as a child that the Chocodile was not all that I believed it to be. In retrospect, I think that my passion for Chocodiles was nothing more than a triumph of marketing. It was always much cooler to be eating a snack cake whose mascot was a hip crocodile as opposed to a regular Twinkie or, heaven forbid, Snowball.
In any case, here's to you, Chocodile. Thanks for the good times.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Books
I don't know how long it has been since I last made a post on this blog. I suppose I could check, but I really don't care and neither does anyone else. However, I've had the feeling that I should write lately so here it goes.
I've been thinking a lot lately about books. I haven't been reading any books, mind you, just thinking about them. If anyone cares, the last book I read was The Last Boy (Just a terrible title. I understand the author's motivation, but still an awful title) about Mickey Mantle. It was a solid read, but nothing spectacular. Anyway, I've always had the desire to write a book. I don't really enjoy writing, but I enjoy reading what I write, if that makes any sense. And I've always been fascinated by novels, especially long ones (Tolstoy not Dickens). The ability to maintain a coherent series of thoughts over the course of several hundred pages is a fascinating skill that sadly eludes me. I suppose I could try to write a short story, but short stories are for wusses and "poets" (Hemingway excluded). If I were to write a book I would like for it to be a marathon of words. However, people would probably think I was trying to mimic Faulkner or Pinchot when really I was just writing a story about a man and his cat.
If I were to write a book, I would want it to be good, which is why I will never write a book. I'm not exactly sure what makes a book "good." I'm sure there is a formula for it that they teach you in literary theory classes (right, Renee) but in my experience you can tell if a book is good simply by the way you feel when you finish it. Good books usually leave me in a state of confused calm. The best example of this is One Hundred Years of Solitude. I read the whole book without ever having a clue what the hell was going on and I loved every minute of it. When I finished I felt as though I had experienced something great, even though I really had no idea what it was. I think my daughter feels this way whenever we read any of those Mo Willems books. I don't think she fully grasps the meaning of Dr. Cat, but I can tell just by looking at her that she understands his awesomeness.
In closing, the worst book ever written is Jane Eyre, and it's not even close. Curse you Charlotte Bronte. I much prefer staring at the endless cornfields of Nebraska from a poorly ventilated mini-van to reading your nonsensical drivel.
I've been thinking a lot lately about books. I haven't been reading any books, mind you, just thinking about them. If anyone cares, the last book I read was The Last Boy (Just a terrible title. I understand the author's motivation, but still an awful title) about Mickey Mantle. It was a solid read, but nothing spectacular. Anyway, I've always had the desire to write a book. I don't really enjoy writing, but I enjoy reading what I write, if that makes any sense. And I've always been fascinated by novels, especially long ones (Tolstoy not Dickens). The ability to maintain a coherent series of thoughts over the course of several hundred pages is a fascinating skill that sadly eludes me. I suppose I could try to write a short story, but short stories are for wusses and "poets" (Hemingway excluded). If I were to write a book I would like for it to be a marathon of words. However, people would probably think I was trying to mimic Faulkner or Pinchot when really I was just writing a story about a man and his cat.
If I were to write a book, I would want it to be good, which is why I will never write a book. I'm not exactly sure what makes a book "good." I'm sure there is a formula for it that they teach you in literary theory classes (right, Renee) but in my experience you can tell if a book is good simply by the way you feel when you finish it. Good books usually leave me in a state of confused calm. The best example of this is One Hundred Years of Solitude. I read the whole book without ever having a clue what the hell was going on and I loved every minute of it. When I finished I felt as though I had experienced something great, even though I really had no idea what it was. I think my daughter feels this way whenever we read any of those Mo Willems books. I don't think she fully grasps the meaning of Dr. Cat, but I can tell just by looking at her that she understands his awesomeness.
In closing, the worst book ever written is Jane Eyre, and it's not even close. Curse you Charlotte Bronte. I much prefer staring at the endless cornfields of Nebraska from a poorly ventilated mini-van to reading your nonsensical drivel.
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