Honea Express

Posts Tagged ‘Books’

I’m assuming by your mere presence here that you are somewhat literate. That being the case there is a fair chance that you enjoy a good book now and again. How would you like to OWN not one, not two, not three, not four, not five, not six, not seven, not eight, not nine, not ten, not eleven, not… oh wait, yes, 11- how would you like to win eleven books? That’s the prize, my friends.

Eleven books will go to not one, not two, not three, not four, but five readers. Yes, 5 people will win eleven books each. Can you feel the excitement? The fact that I only have five readers makes your odds of winning a major award very good. Like Pete Rose good.

Here are the books you may win, as provided by our sponsor Hachette Book Group, USA:

The books have been selected especially for dads. This isn’t because I don’t like non-dads, but because Father’s Day is coming up. BTW, if anyone is sounding this out, I don’t need a tie. I work at home. I don’t even need pants. Just put some beer in the icebox and let me take a nap.

Here is the contest. It is a simple multiple choice questionnaire followed by a short essay. You have 10 minutes to complete it. Winners will be drawn randomly from all completed submissions.

1. How many jelly beans are in this jar?
a) 1,673
b) 1,674
c) 6
d) all of the above
e) none of the above

2. Where is Jimmy Hoffa?
a) living in a trailer park with Elvis
b) growing grass in the Meadowlands
c) buried under 1,673 jelly beans
d) who the hell is Jimmy Hoffa?

3. Which thing does not belong:
a) Guinness
b) Bass
c) Stone
d) Budweiser

The essay: In 25 words, exactly, explain why you would like to win.
The extra credit: In 10 words, exactly, explain your feelings for Whit.

Winners will be notified in the comments and via email. Contest closes on Tuesday, June 10th at 11:59 p.m..<- do I need this extra period here?

We’ve got winners! They’re in the comments.

Disclaimer for a contest*, but not this one:
1. NO PURCHASE NECESSARY TO ENTER OR WIN. A purchase will not improve your chance of winning.
2. ELIGIBILITY. Contest is open only to legal residents of the United States who are currently over the age of 18 and have children who attend elementary, private or parochial schools that serve grades PreK-6. No home schools will be accepted.
*This disclaimer is actually from a Subway contest. I thought I’d use it since I have a nice group of readers outside of the U.S., and also home schoolers, both of which probably don’t get hazed enough. The rules listed DO NOT apply to my contest- anyone can win, even Jared.

I was sitting in a bookstore in Hollywood talking to Neal Pollack and had just finished saying something stupid to a friend of his about her shoes when Rebecca Woolf walked in. We were introduced and Neal went on to tell me that Rebecca had just signed a book deal. She was stunning so I only hated her for a moment. She talked briefly about the book before being whisked away to give chase to her motherly duties.

Later, while I was reading whatever it was I was reading, Rebecca and her son Archer made a few laps around me and every time one of us would nod or smile to the other, sometimes both. Archer was oblivious to me. I doubt that Rebecca remembers any of that, but I do, because watching her and her son made me feel guilty that I hadn’t brought mine with me. Of course an hour later I was sitting around a pitcher of margaritas with Jason Avant and Whiffleboy, my colleagues at DadCentric, and I was long over any remorse of paternal guilt.

Her book, Rockabye, is now out, and upon reading it I was immediately hit by two things, a) this isn’t your typical parenting book, and b) I totally missed her slut phase. I won’t lie. The latter hurt a little.

If you read Rebecca’s blog(s) then you have an idea of what to expect from her story. She is tough as she is tender and above all she is honest. Her writing is welcoming, and she invites you to come in, have a drink, take your shoes off and be comfortable in your own skin, and hers as well.

It is a narrative of insight and understanding that allows the reader to relate and reflect.

For instance: “Who are we to tame our children before they even understand what it means to be wild? Who are we to limit their experience with our own closed minds? And don’t we remember what it felt like to be kids? Because if I’m not mistaken, every single thing my mother told me not to do I did. Twice.”

Exactly. Yet, I have found myself doing just that, trying to stay the inevitable when in truth I am only delaying it, perhaps magnifying it. Her words made me stop and take a breath. I do remember what it was like to be a kid, and still, it is easy to forget. Too easy.

There is inspiration there, and it continues throughout: “Martyrdom does not bring into the world children with a strong sense of self. A mother who sacrifices her livelihood for her children is risking not only her own loss of identity but also the well-being of her children. No child deserves to be resented. It is possible to do it all well.”

And she does.

At least on paper. She will be the first to admit that she is flawed, and rather than hide her blemishes she has chosen to embrace them. They are, after all, what makes us who we are.

Hers is the real world, and it is full of rainbows.

Read more from Rebecca at Girl’s Gone Child and Straight form the Bottle. Buy Rockabye here or at a bookseller near you (also available in my sidebar!).

“Dadditude: How a Real Man Became a Real Dad” is a new book by Philip Lerman. Lerman, as it turns out is a real man and a real dad, so obviously he knows what he’s talking about. That’s always refreshing.

Philip Lerman is a self-described “older dad” meaning that he was pushing 50 before he took the leap. He left his job as a co-executive producer of America’s Most Wanted and took on something a bit tougher, parenting.

I think he’s enjoying it.

The book chronicles the making and subsequent enjoyment of “one small boy with a Beatles haircut,” 3-year-old Max. Together with the Lerman boys we go to school, eat pancakes and whipped cream, and spend a lot of time naked. Hell, I read most of the book nude (and sometimes drunk).

The story is full of love, humor, 60′s references (mostly music), and Yiddish jokes- there’s something for everyone. There are even nuggets of wisdom:

Our desire to control our children’s behavior, for their own good, too easily slips over the line to controlling their behavior for our own good.

Obviously there were many things that I, as a father, could relate to, but the quote above is the only one that made me get up, pour two-fingers of Maker’s, put on Blonde on Blonde (the Dylan album, not the porn series), get a pen and underline it.

That bit of truth actually led into what I believe is the overall point of the book, the definition of Dadditude.

Dadditude is just about learning to Be. Here. Now.

See? That’s a point worth making, and it is a book worth reading. Do so, and enjoy it.
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If you would like to read more about Dadditude you can visit the site, where, among other things, you can get advice like the following:

Q: If you had one bit of advice for fathers, what would it be?

When you’re with your child, there are mothers everywhere, so be very careful: Don’t get caught looking at the boobs of all the moms in the playground. It’s considered bad form.

How’s that for Dadditude?

Norman Mailer was a contradiction. He was seen by some as the left personified and by others as an oppressor of rights. It was all relative. The guy lived hard, drank hard and wrote harder.

According to CNN: (Mailer) had nine children, made a quixotic bid to become mayor of New York, produced five forgettable films, dabbled in journalism, flew gliders, challenged professional boxers, was banned from a Manhattan YWHA for reciting obscene poetry, feuded publicly with writer Gore Vidal and crusaded against the women’s liberation movement.

He claimed his being labeled by Time magazine as a sexist pig as “the greatest injustice in American life.” The guy loved women. He married six of them and only stabbed one.

Mailer inspired me, not so much to stab my wife, but to write. His novel “Tough Guys Don’t Dance” was a turning point for me in my love with literature. That was when I learned that I could rub some grit in my prose and still be legit. If Steinbeck was a piece of toast then Mailer was a thick layer of peanut butter. Extra crunchy. He paved my way to the next group that would move and ruin me, Bukowski and Burroughs, and the likes of which that would form the world in which my characters were able to be free of fear and tact. I learned that a character could be real, even when their reality was skewed from my own.

His is a dying breed, but it is not dead.

He once said, “fiction was everything. The novel, the big novel, the driving force. We all wanted to be Hemingway … I don’t think the same thing can be said anymore. I don’t think my work has inspired any writer, not the way Hemingway inspired me.”

I too wanted to be Hemingway. Mailer was no slouch though. The guy won exactly two more Pulitzer Prizes than me. I’m sure that has inspired plenty.

I just wrote a big-ass review of Christpher Noxon’s Rejuvenile over at DadCentric. It took me a long time, so go read it and then buy the book so Noxon thinks I did him a solid.