Randy Pausch's The Last Lecture was at times insightful and at other times a long thank you letter to his wife and kids.
The first three-quarters of the book provided many interesting life anecdotes. Some of my favorites were: how influential the world of Disney was in his life, how he went about fulfilling many of his childhood dreams, and how his first football coach started his team's first practice without a football.
The last quarter of the book went on for too long about how great his wife and kids were. While commendable, I didn't feel it provided the reader with any information that would help him or her in their own life.
I was disappointed that the The Last Lecture did not contain a transcript or narration of Randy's lecture, thereby turning the book into a "behind the scenes" making of the last lecture.
In conclusion, I felt that while the book had much to offer at times, lacking the actual lecture left me dissatisfied.
Showing posts with label nonfiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nonfiction. Show all posts
Friday, December 23, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Book Review: In Cold Blood
In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote is a gripping story not so much about the act of murder, but of how two men can commit premeditated murder against a family of four they have never met. Capote’s ability to attribute distinctive voices to the principal characters (victims, murders and police) as well as his evocative descriptions really kept me engaged.
I was worried initially about his portrayal of the murders considering the vividness of his descriptions. In the end, the description of the murders themselves seemed somehow short in description; just enough to tell it as it was, but not too much to cause one to avert the eyes. Actually, what was more haunting to me was the story of the murderers from childhood to the time they were captured.
Recently, a high school teacher caused a stir when she wanted to have her class read In Cold Blood. At first, I couldn't figure out what the debate was about as the readers would be high school students and the murder itself wasn’t anything worse than high school students would see in a horror film. But somewhere around the halfway point of the story, Capote really began describing the murderers’ upbringing and what may have caused them to become capable of premeditated murder. At that point, I could understand the debate.
Mind you, it’s Capote’s writing skills and wealth of research that really made this novel so effective. The opening scene, taking us into the town of Holcomb, Kansas was very so evocative, I had my son listen as I read the first three pages out loud to him. He was really impressed.
Also, Capote’s discussion about insanity pleas as a defense and how these two murderers became poster children for psychiatry in criminal cases was very interesting.
My only critique is the lead investigator and wife’s story dragged at times compared to the rest of the compelling novel.
In Cold Blood, is a very good, read and it is dark. I’d recommend it as a book for adults, but could see the book being used as a teaching tool in a senior high school classroom.
I was worried initially about his portrayal of the murders considering the vividness of his descriptions. In the end, the description of the murders themselves seemed somehow short in description; just enough to tell it as it was, but not too much to cause one to avert the eyes. Actually, what was more haunting to me was the story of the murderers from childhood to the time they were captured.
Recently, a high school teacher caused a stir when she wanted to have her class read In Cold Blood. At first, I couldn't figure out what the debate was about as the readers would be high school students and the murder itself wasn’t anything worse than high school students would see in a horror film. But somewhere around the halfway point of the story, Capote really began describing the murderers’ upbringing and what may have caused them to become capable of premeditated murder. At that point, I could understand the debate.
Mind you, it’s Capote’s writing skills and wealth of research that really made this novel so effective. The opening scene, taking us into the town of Holcomb, Kansas was very so evocative, I had my son listen as I read the first three pages out loud to him. He was really impressed.
Also, Capote’s discussion about insanity pleas as a defense and how these two murderers became poster children for psychiatry in criminal cases was very interesting.
My only critique is the lead investigator and wife’s story dragged at times compared to the rest of the compelling novel.
In Cold Blood, is a very good, read and it is dark. I’d recommend it as a book for adults, but could see the book being used as a teaching tool in a senior high school classroom.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Book Review: Last Flag Down: The Epic Journey of the Last Confederate Warship
Last Flag Down by John Baldwin and Ron Powers tells the story of the Confederate warship CSS Shenandoah and her executive officer Conway Whittle. At times I found it very interesting, especially during the final months of Shenandoah's voyage and when the authors provided information about major Civil War events that were occurring back on the mainland while they were at sea. However, middle parts of the novel dragged as the men navigated long stretches of sea where nothing happened. Even the protagonist Whittle would often say how uneventful the days could be.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
To Give or Not to Give
“Excuse me, sir.”
I pulled my gaze away from the grocery store’s five shelves of popcorn to focus on a middle-aged African American man standing beside me in a gray t-shirt and sweats.
“Can you help me out?” Joe asked.
At first glance, Joe did not appear homeless. His clothes were clean, his hair fairly well-groomed and his speech clear. But his eyes were cloudy and there was something in the way he asked that question, a certain quiet, yet assertive way, that I knew he was going to ask for money.
As a typical rule, I don’t give money to beggars. In part because I’ve watched documentaries exposing some of them making a pretty fair living out of the kindness of others when there is nothing wrong with them, in part because I don’t want my money to possibly help them buy drugs, and in part because I don’t want to encourage them to keep asking for money.
"You see,” he said, “my wife and daughter are in a van outside and I’m trying to get them some food and…”
“Would you like me to buy you something?” I cut him off, because if I heard him ask for money, I’d have just turned away. However, I’ve always believed that if a person in need asks for food, I’d give it to them. So since we were in a grocery store, I figured I’d see if he would accept an offer of food or if he was only interested in money.
To my surprise, his face lit up and he said yes.
“What would you like?”
Joe thought for a moment, “A sandwich from the deli.”
We walked over to the deli and he asked for a meatball sandwich. When the young man behind the deli-counter asked what size, I said a large one. But before the clerk could start making it, Joe asked, “Are the meatballs made out of pork?”
The clerk looked confused then checked with two other clerks and they all said they didn’t know.
“My wife can’t eat pork,” Joe said. “Give me the chicken instead.”
While the clerk made the sandwich, Joe and I had a nice discussion. I was very impressed with how polite he was and how well he spoke. He explained that he and his family were just trying to make it to the weekend, when they would be good for awhile. When I asked why, he explained that’s when the food bank at a local church opened and his family would also receive a voucher to stay at a hotel for 18 days so they wouldn’t have to keep sleeping in their van. Joe used to work with marble for home remodels, but has been out of work for eight months. He was paid under the table and hadn’t filed a W4 in eight years and therefore was ineligible for unemployment.
A sad story. Real? Who knows? The story definitely seemed plausible and Joe appeared sincere, although those are probably the first two rules a con-artist learns: make the story plausible and appear sincere.
After the sandwich was made, we shook hands, wished each other well and parted our separate ways.
When I left the store, I scanned the parking lot for a van, but saw none.
Whether Joe had a family or not, was homeless or not, or just saw me as a sucker, I felt good knowing that whatever his motivations were, he and perhaps “his wife and teenage daughter” were going to eat well that night.
(The man's name has been changed to respect his privacy.)
I pulled my gaze away from the grocery store’s five shelves of popcorn to focus on a middle-aged African American man standing beside me in a gray t-shirt and sweats.
“Can you help me out?” Joe asked.
At first glance, Joe did not appear homeless. His clothes were clean, his hair fairly well-groomed and his speech clear. But his eyes were cloudy and there was something in the way he asked that question, a certain quiet, yet assertive way, that I knew he was going to ask for money.
As a typical rule, I don’t give money to beggars. In part because I’ve watched documentaries exposing some of them making a pretty fair living out of the kindness of others when there is nothing wrong with them, in part because I don’t want my money to possibly help them buy drugs, and in part because I don’t want to encourage them to keep asking for money.
"You see,” he said, “my wife and daughter are in a van outside and I’m trying to get them some food and…”
“Would you like me to buy you something?” I cut him off, because if I heard him ask for money, I’d have just turned away. However, I’ve always believed that if a person in need asks for food, I’d give it to them. So since we were in a grocery store, I figured I’d see if he would accept an offer of food or if he was only interested in money.
To my surprise, his face lit up and he said yes.
“What would you like?”
Joe thought for a moment, “A sandwich from the deli.”
We walked over to the deli and he asked for a meatball sandwich. When the young man behind the deli-counter asked what size, I said a large one. But before the clerk could start making it, Joe asked, “Are the meatballs made out of pork?”
The clerk looked confused then checked with two other clerks and they all said they didn’t know.
“My wife can’t eat pork,” Joe said. “Give me the chicken instead.”
While the clerk made the sandwich, Joe and I had a nice discussion. I was very impressed with how polite he was and how well he spoke. He explained that he and his family were just trying to make it to the weekend, when they would be good for awhile. When I asked why, he explained that’s when the food bank at a local church opened and his family would also receive a voucher to stay at a hotel for 18 days so they wouldn’t have to keep sleeping in their van. Joe used to work with marble for home remodels, but has been out of work for eight months. He was paid under the table and hadn’t filed a W4 in eight years and therefore was ineligible for unemployment.
A sad story. Real? Who knows? The story definitely seemed plausible and Joe appeared sincere, although those are probably the first two rules a con-artist learns: make the story plausible and appear sincere.
After the sandwich was made, we shook hands, wished each other well and parted our separate ways.
When I left the store, I scanned the parking lot for a van, but saw none.
Whether Joe had a family or not, was homeless or not, or just saw me as a sucker, I felt good knowing that whatever his motivations were, he and perhaps “his wife and teenage daughter” were going to eat well that night.
(The man's name has been changed to respect his privacy.)
Monday, March 9, 2009
Full Service
I was driving through the tree-lined streets of San Marino when I realized I was driving on fumes. I pulled into the first gas station I saw, a former Union 76 that had been whitewashed and now had someone’s name on it. Great, I thought, it’s one of those generic gas stations where they probably cut their gas with water. But whether it was the crappiest sludge in L.A. or not, I needed fuel right then and there.
So I pulled up to the pump and got of my car, only to see a man in a black sweatshirt standing beside my car’s gas tank.
“Fill ‘er up or how much do you want?” he said.
I stared at him dumbfounded. Transient who wants to pump my gas for a tip? I thought. But he didn’t look like a transient. His clothes were clean and he was freshly shaved, and it was San Marino after all. I looked at the gas pump and noticed there was no slot for a credit card or numbered keypad. About the time he asked me how much again, I saw the collared shirt beneath his sweatshirt and realized he was a gas station attendant.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I did not realize I was in full service.” There was a .40 cent difference between self- and full-service.
I turned to open my car door, when he said, “No I’ll fill it up for that price,” and he pointed to a big white and blue sign on the street corner that listed the self-service price. I said are you sure? He said yeah. (I know, lame question on my part.)
So he stuck in the pump and walked up to a Mercedes parked in front of me that he had just serviced. He handed the driver a blue plastic clipboard with a credit card stuck in the top, waited for her to sign, then returned to his little booth as the car drove away.
Hmmm. Interesting.
Then a black Suburban pulled up across from me. The attendant walked up to the driver’s door as a middle-aged woman opened it to get out. A blankness came over her face, then a clenched jaw, then a confused acceptance that he wasn’t going to mug her, as he explained he was going to pump her gas—a sequence of expressions that had probably mimicked my own.
Mind you, this whole time I had been standing outside my car unsure what to do with myself. I didn’t feel like getting in my hot car and just sitting there. It seemed foolish. Although looking back, it probably looked more foolish standing beside my door watching a gas station attendant make his rounds.
When my gas pump dinged, the attendant came over, topped it off, and asked for my credit card. At this point, all the wonderful horror stories and warnings of stolen credit card numbers came rushing through my head. Don’t let your credit card leave your sight, much less your possession. Did he have one of those little copiers over there, so he could make a duplicate of my card? Was he planning a trip to Vegas?
After someone had used one my credit cards for an extravagant trip to Vegas, I’d been extremely vigilant on where my cards went. But I was stuck. I didn’t have any cash and I had to pay somehow, so with a sense of dread, I handed over my card.
He came back a minute later, my card stick sticking out of the little plastic tray with a receipt to sign: just how it was done when I was a kid. At this point, I thought, hey, this is kinda cool.
I said thanks and was on my way. Although, I was left wondering if my card was about to fund someone else’s trip to Vegas, or if I just had a very nice unexpected experience. I’ll wait until my next credit card statement to see if I’ll visit that gas station again.
So I pulled up to the pump and got of my car, only to see a man in a black sweatshirt standing beside my car’s gas tank.
“Fill ‘er up or how much do you want?” he said.
I stared at him dumbfounded. Transient who wants to pump my gas for a tip? I thought. But he didn’t look like a transient. His clothes were clean and he was freshly shaved, and it was San Marino after all. I looked at the gas pump and noticed there was no slot for a credit card or numbered keypad. About the time he asked me how much again, I saw the collared shirt beneath his sweatshirt and realized he was a gas station attendant.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I did not realize I was in full service.” There was a .40 cent difference between self- and full-service.
I turned to open my car door, when he said, “No I’ll fill it up for that price,” and he pointed to a big white and blue sign on the street corner that listed the self-service price. I said are you sure? He said yeah. (I know, lame question on my part.)
So he stuck in the pump and walked up to a Mercedes parked in front of me that he had just serviced. He handed the driver a blue plastic clipboard with a credit card stuck in the top, waited for her to sign, then returned to his little booth as the car drove away.
Hmmm. Interesting.
Then a black Suburban pulled up across from me. The attendant walked up to the driver’s door as a middle-aged woman opened it to get out. A blankness came over her face, then a clenched jaw, then a confused acceptance that he wasn’t going to mug her, as he explained he was going to pump her gas—a sequence of expressions that had probably mimicked my own.
Mind you, this whole time I had been standing outside my car unsure what to do with myself. I didn’t feel like getting in my hot car and just sitting there. It seemed foolish. Although looking back, it probably looked more foolish standing beside my door watching a gas station attendant make his rounds.
When my gas pump dinged, the attendant came over, topped it off, and asked for my credit card. At this point, all the wonderful horror stories and warnings of stolen credit card numbers came rushing through my head. Don’t let your credit card leave your sight, much less your possession. Did he have one of those little copiers over there, so he could make a duplicate of my card? Was he planning a trip to Vegas?
After someone had used one my credit cards for an extravagant trip to Vegas, I’d been extremely vigilant on where my cards went. But I was stuck. I didn’t have any cash and I had to pay somehow, so with a sense of dread, I handed over my card.
He came back a minute later, my card stick sticking out of the little plastic tray with a receipt to sign: just how it was done when I was a kid. At this point, I thought, hey, this is kinda cool.
I said thanks and was on my way. Although, I was left wondering if my card was about to fund someone else’s trip to Vegas, or if I just had a very nice unexpected experience. I’ll wait until my next credit card statement to see if I’ll visit that gas station again.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
So I took a walk today...
My last post said how I was stuck in a fiction world of writing, so I took a walk today to see what I could find outside my head. This is what I found:
It was hot today.
A blazing blue sky.
Perhaps a remnant of the fires.
A white sliver of ash floated by.
Someone had owned it once:
A chair, a roof, or wall perhaps,
Or perhaps it'd been a tree or leaf.
Did it come from Sylmar, Chino or Anaheim?
Where would it land before it was kicked up again:
Pasadena, El Sereno, Downtown?
Would it make it to the sea?
Change of scenery.
Cooks in white.
Servers in black.
Tables brown.
Booths red.
Kitchen steel.
A pink pig lit up outside.
...
Spanish being sung in the kitchen.
Texting between burger flips.
The Big Three begging for money overhead.
Reality.
Basketball analysis up there as well.
Escapism.
An interesting world when one gets a chance to open their eyes and ears and think about it for awhile.
It was hot today.
A blazing blue sky.
Perhaps a remnant of the fires.
A white sliver of ash floated by.
Someone had owned it once:
A chair, a roof, or wall perhaps,
Or perhaps it'd been a tree or leaf.
Did it come from Sylmar, Chino or Anaheim?
Where would it land before it was kicked up again:
Pasadena, El Sereno, Downtown?
Would it make it to the sea?
Change of scenery.
Cooks in white.
Servers in black.
Tables brown.
Booths red.
Kitchen steel.
A pink pig lit up outside.
...
Spanish being sung in the kitchen.
Texting between burger flips.
The Big Three begging for money overhead.
Reality.
Basketball analysis up there as well.
Escapism.
An interesting world when one gets a chance to open their eyes and ears and think about it for awhile.
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