Yes, Peter Boyle, who died yesterday was more than the character he played on an episode of the X-Files - a fantastic performance that won him an Emmy, but that was probably my favorite performance by him. (By the by, “Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose” is a great episode in what was probably one of the best seasons (the third) of the X-Files.) I never really watched Everybody Loves Raymond (wasn’t really the target demo, you know?), but whenever I did catch some random episode in syndication, his character was the one I looked forward to seeing. He was also really adorable in my fave guilty pleasure rom-com While You Were Sleeping. His filmography though includes so many movies I’m almost embarrased I haven’t yet seen - The Candidate, Taxi Driver, Monster’s Ball, etc.

Last Friday, I finished Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. This was a book I purchased from Barnes & Noble online because it was like 5 bucks. And I was intrigued because the author is Igbo (like me!). It was interesting to learn her background as Nigerian-raised and educated, but that she had further college-level work in the U.S., so there was an awareness of both worlds.

The book was fascinating because it depicted a Nigeria I’m not particularly familiar with, e.g., people who live in cities and have electricity (sort of) and running water (only a few). My relatives largely live in villages without those two conveniences of modern life and with a well and a generator, we make life in the village somewhat “normal” by Western standards.

The story itself - a sort of coming of age story of a very sheltered teenager - is interesting more because its perspective is unusual. There just aren’t that many books that reach our shores about Nigerian teenagers. Here, fifteen year old Kambili lives under a strict and abusive father who is generous with the Catholic Church and community. The result is that he is a well-regarded benefactor for the church and considered one of the most important men in town, not only for the food he gives at Christmas, but also because he runs the one newspaper that is willing to criticize the government. Yet at home, he is somewhat of a tyrant, demanding perfection from his children in every aspect of their lives (school, schedules, worship, dialogue at the dinner table), punishing what seems to be even the slightest deviation.

The book is written well from Kambili’s perspective - she knows what a sheltered fifteen year old would know and as she starts thinking new things, the reader is brought along the journey with her. There is some fairly well-worn coming-of-age ground here - shy, sheltered girl mistaken for a snob; traumatic domestic situation that appears normal to outsiders; a little rebellion; etc. The story is redeemed, though, because the characters are realistically drawn (even though set in an unfamiliar land) and behave and react and make choices that are so believable even when heartbreaking.

It is a strange feeling to have contempt for a stranger. It seems so unneccesary, so excessive. Yet here I sit, writing about a stranger who I see every weekday and each time I find myself shaking my head (on the inside only, of course). He is some sort of doorman/security guard at a financial district building that is on the route from BART to my office. Well, he’s not really a  doorman. He does not open the door for anyone. Hmm, let me revise that. Occassionally, he opens the door for a pretty young thing, particularly if she’s wearing a skirt (and - this this time year - knee or thigh high boots).

Absent generally meeting the job behavior of a doorman, exemplefied more properly by the guys at the swanky hotel on the next block, I think he is - or is supposed to be - a security guard. Except, well, he doesn’t really seem to do that either. He stands in front of the building, but doesn’t really appear to look at anyone going in. Perhaps he is well-trained and has superior peripheral vision, but I can’t say that’s how it looks. Frequently, I cross his path as he is returning from getting coffee, but no one mans his post in his absence. Sometimes he is too busy chatting up one of those aforementioned pretty young things in a short skirt or staring at the legs and rear of one as she walks by - yes, I’ve seen him do that, yes, I was offended on her behalf, yes, she probably had a reasonable expectation that men would gawk after that when she chose that outfit on a chilly fall day, no, that doesn’t make him any less of a lech.

I shouldn’t care, but I’m so perplexed by his role in the universe and the fact that he seems to get paid for standing around doing something just shy of nothing. I admit that “security” at most office buildings is probably not significantly better than at your average mall - though if you wander around the Embacadero Centers looking bewildered, the security will come “help” you out. But this guy, I think he serves no purpose in front of that building (though he may serve some great purpose elsewhere in his life). So each morning as I walk by, I can’t help but stare at him, trying to figure out the mystery, probably glaring, and yet in my infinite politeness, this morning, he accidentally caught my eye and reflexively, I smiled.

So this book is bulletproof. I finished A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers a few weeks ago, but for some reason wasn’t motivated to write about it. I went in with high expectations (always a mistake), and came out thinking it was great, but with vague, nagging sense of disappointment that I cannot fully articulate. I love McSweeney’s and since just about everyone under 30 living in San Francisco has apparently already read the book, I had heard raves from several different places, including how cool it was to read about parts of the city they knew and to read Eggers describe doing things my very friends also do. Also there was that big ol’ “Pullitzer Prize Finalist” bubble on the cover. So that was the hype, but it did not help that contemporaneously with reading I kept stumbling across pieces, well, making fun of Eggers, e.g, this (follow up here and here), this, etc. [all via Edward Champion’s Return of the Reluctant (also)].

Back to the bulletproof aspect - this book is (brilliantly) so knowingly self-aware of just how incredibly self-indulgent it is. So before you can even make that point (which, well, it’s still sitting there), it’s been made and brushed aside. But it’s an autobiography and those are inherently self-indulgent. And as one preface in some autobiography I read in my first history course in college (I think it was by a slave - the book not the course), every autobiography has to be taken with a grain of salt because people cannot be expected to recollect perfectly nor can they be expected to not exaggerate.

My favorite part, to be honest, was what comes before the proper book - the copyright page, preface, acknowledgments, etc. They are the longest most consistent stretch of amusement in the book. The first part, about Eggers’ parents dying, floors you with the honest, open, gory details. The relationship with his brother Toph is fun to read because he depicts it with such adoration, and his becoming a parent is so, well, heartwarming even if his life as a twentysomething like that of other twentysomethings is a study in self-absorption and know-it-all-ism. The brushes with fame (Adam Rich, Vince Vaugn, Mr. T, Judd from The Real World San Francisco, a girl from Dangerous Minds) add an interesting twist, but make him even less ordinary. Overall, it was a good, fun read.