An experiment gone bad

It's been said the best way to stave off the decay of old age is to endeavor in new activities. If my mind is working properly, sometimes the synapses don't fire, I've mentioned this before on these here digital pages. Several times.

Recently, with some cajoling by Ms. Muse, I stepped out of my comfort zone and into a Speedo (a modified, more humble American Speedo, not the overly-randy Euro version) and played a little inner tube water polo at the Palm Springs Swim Center.

Also, with some nudging by Ms. Muse, I ventured out on the SS Zaandam (Dutch for come aboard our city-sized cruise ship and eat and drink like they're running out of the stuff) and sailed into the Tracey Arm Inlet in Alaska. 

Also on the new experiences frontier and because I'm always running out of paper essentials, I've installed two, count 'em, two bidets in my house. One upstairs in the Master Bedroom. And one downstairs in the Guest Bathroom. 

Giving me total access to cool refreshing streaming water. 

And I'll say no more about that.

Last week, having finished my book Younger Next Year, an informative and helpful handbook for aging and de-aging, I scoured the house for a new book to begin. That's when I came across my daughter's copy of The Guest by Emma Cline. 

At this point I should mention that unlike their father and much like their late mother, both my girls are readers. I should also mention that every time I spot them with their nose buried in a book, I NEVER recognize the title.

That's to be expected, given the age difference and the fact that we live and socialize in two completely different circles. Being naturally curious and having an abundance of time on my hand  (before my brother landed himself in the hospital again) I decided to enter the fast paced, easy reading world of Chick Lit.

In no time I was turning pages faster than a fat guy plowing through a bag of BBQ-flavored potato chips. This, I thought would've have been an excellent primer for Senor Hemingway, whose writing is tedious, labored and just fucking dull. It took me an hour to get 7 pages into A Movable Feast. And I had a natural inclination to want to read about his Parisian carousing, as I've actually visited Le Polidor and dined on their famous Steak and Pom Frite.

But Hemingway is no Emma Cline. 

She writes about NYC hookers, intimidating pimps, extravagant parties in the Hamptons, transactional sex and even swimming. I was on board. 

Until I wasn't.

After 100 pages in, the book started meandering. And the travails of Alex started going nowhere. This was beginning to feel like a female counterpart to Holden Cauliflower in A Catcher in the Rye. So I did the unthinkable, I started reading reviews. And though I may be wrong, it appeared my literary spidey sense turned out correct. 

The book apparently, doesn't have what every book must -- an ending. And so I have returned it to the pile of stuff my daughters deposit here and never seem to take away, including books, sweaters, and underwear with less fabric than a cocktail napkin.

Chick Lit. Experiment -- FAIL