I read a lot. I also listen to audiobooks. I get ’em from the public library, for the most part. I listen to them on my iPod or pocket computer. Now, since the library’s collection comes almost entirely on compact disc (they do still have cassette tapes, believe it or not) this means I obviously have to rip the CDs—convert ’em to MP3—before I listen to them. ’Cause I’m not lugging around a portable CD player and a case of discs.
I’m not sure how the library feels about this; I never bothered to ask. But my usual modus operandi is to go to the library, pull the audiobook CDs off the stacks, sit down with my laptop, and rip it right there. Then I put the CDs back. I don’t even bother to check them out. I used to, but that was silly: I’d just go home, rip the CDs, then return them the next time I went to the library. Meanwhile the discs just sat there at home, and any poor schlub who wanted to listen to that book had to wait for me to return it. Seems a waste. Now, no waste.
I figure it’d be piracy if I kept the MP3s, but I don’t. I delete them after I listen to them. Or once I’ve given up on the book.
Last week, fr'instance. I ripped, then started to listen to, this one previously-bestselling book. I won’t mention the author, ’cause I’m not gonna say nice things about him. If you can’t say anything nice, don’t use real names. Let’s just call him Skip Fulbert. (Thank you, Random Name Generator.)
Skip’s essay collection, I Don’t Care for You in Particular (also not its real name), came recommended by two different and unconnected friends, Pedro Franjic and Patricia KrΓΌger. (I am really getting some mileage out of this name generator.) I don’t know about their sense of humor other than that they think I’m funny. Though sorta flattering (and sorta not; some people can’t tell when I’m being serious) it tells me little. But hey, it’s a library book; it costs me nothing. Figured I’d give it a whirl.
And if it’s light reading, it’s just the sort of thing for the iPod. I’ve tried heavy-reading stuff as audiobooks. They don’t work unless I have no distractions whatsoever.
That includes walking. Because sometimes I’ll cross a street or driveway, and Vacaville drivers are, like Californian drivers, like American drivers, like human drivers the world over, contemptuous of pedestrians, and would install cowcatchers on the front bumpers and hit us freely if there weren’t laws against it. So I’ve gotta be able to miss the occasional sentence without being forced to back up the recording.
Lately I’ve been listening to Francis Chan’s Crazy Love, and he has the annoying habit of saying, “Read that paragraph” (or “Read those last two paragraphs”) “again,” and I wish he wouldn’t. First of all, it’s an audiobook. He needs to accommodate the different format and say, “Listen to those last 30 seconds again.” Or better still, re-say them. Because I’m not backing up to listen to it again. Contrary to what he expects, his sayings—though profound—aren’t gonna become more awesome the second time around. On the contrary. The way my mind works, I’m more likely to start picking it apart. Rewinding is not his friend. But I digress. Enough skipping Skip.
Pedro and Patricia thought I’d appreciate Skip more than the average, not-so-funny person. Well, y'never know. So I went to the library, ripped Skip’s book, and started listening to the first three essays. I think I laughed twice. The rest of the time, my attitude was closer to that of Homer Simpson when he first saw Garrison Keillor on a
HOMER. What the hell’s so funny?
KEILLOR. At the Apple Biscuit cafe, where the smiles are free, don’t you know, Sven Inqvist studied the menu… and finally he ordered the same thing he has every day.
AUDIENCE. [laughter; applause]
BART. Maybe it’s the TV.
HOMER. Stupid TV. [thumps it] Be more funny!—“Marge on the Lam,” 1993
Skip is a clever writer, and sometimes amusing. He can get a smile or two out of me. But that’s after an hour of listening to him ramble on and on and on about his wife’s ability to pay the bills, his adventure in some New Jersey bookstore, his colorful friend from Alabama, or his odd experiences in Dallas’s sex dungeons. (No, he didn’t actually write an essay on that. I told you: Names changed to protect the underwhelming.) So about halfway through the third essay, I turned off the player and walked the rest of the way to my destination without it, listening only to the traffic, which was more interesting.
My reaction, rather than being, “This is comedy gold,” or “He writes well,” was more along the lines of, “Seems like the sort of guy the
No, I don’t know why those two particular outlets specialize in promoting this genre of I-can’t-tell-if-we’re-meant-to-laugh-at-this literature. Doesn’t matter. Some people like it. My two friends, fr'instance.
The book was read by the author. Some authors are too busy writing to read their own books, or in some cases are so unfamiliar with the ghostwritten material, the studio would have to break every 15 minutes while the “author” examined “their” own words in growing horror. So the publisher hires a professional actor to do it.
I have learned to appreciate this. I used to think it was better when authors read their own books. It’s because when I read my own stuff, I know the right emphasis and tone to put on it. Not everyone else would. I’ve heard other people read my stuff, and they add their own personality to my words, which doesn’t always help. When I read it, it sounds like me.
But on too many audiobooks, it sounds like nobody. Tonally, that is. Yeah, it’s Anne Lamott’s literal voice. Or Jimmy Carter’s, Stephen King’s, Barack Obama’s. But each of them sound like they’re reading someone else’s book. They can’t present their own stuff properly.
Even the usually-hilarious Steve Martin. I can understand it with politicians; we rarely elect them because they’re colorful. But in Martin’s case, with a guy who’s a professional actor and comedy writer and should know what he’s doing, it was irritating to hear him plod through his own book, Born Standing Up, in the sort of dry monotone you expect from someone who’s just smoked nine joints. Even when he was quoting some of his own standup material. I’ve heard his albums; I know he’s told these jokes better than that.
I had listened to Lamott’s Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith, and she likewise did the dry monotone. The only time I heard serious emotion in Lamott’s voice was when she was talking about President George W. Bush. She hates Bush. Hate may not be a strong enough word to describe the visceral urge she has to throw footwear at the guy. She wrote about how she’s obligated to pray for him and forgive him, because she’s Christian and we gotta pray for our leaders. (Not that many of the Republicans I know ever bother to do this, unless they’re doing the “Lord, let another take his office” bit from Psalm 109.) Lamott recognizes, because they’re both Christians, she’ll inevitably spend eternity in heaven with him, and she’s hoping God will reprogram the both of them into kindly casual strangers before they ever bump into one another whatever heaven’s vastly better substitute for Starbucks is. Meanwhile, in this age, she hates Bush to the point of despair. If you don’t entirely grasp it from her written words, you definitely pick it up from the spoken word. Still, it shouldn’t take rage to get something more out of a vocal performance.
George Carlin is a fun exception. Then again, his books are recycled standup material, and he delivers it the same way. Now, he knew how to read a book. They should’ve given him Steve Martin’s book to read. Even after nine joints, he’d have killed. Oh well.