Review: Little Brother, by Cory Doctorow

Neil Gaiman, whose tact and talent for double-edged diplomacy I've often admired, has a blurb listed at the start of this book. "It made me want to be thirteen again right now and reading it for the first time."

And really, that kind of sums it up. This is not a complex book. It is a political call-to-arms, a rallying cry for free speech and free exchange of information, which is just as relevant now (in the Snowden and "what does the NSA actually mean when they say" era) as it is was in the immediately post-9/11 environment in which it was so obviously written. The good guys are average folks, the bad guys are all working for the federal government to spy on (and capture and torture and curtail the freedoms of) the good guys, everyone over twenty-five years old is buying into the system to stay feeling safe, and it's up to the scrappy young kids to both prove that the surveillance is doing no such thing and to turn public opinion against the federal government and its endemic human rights abuses.

That's pretty much it. No shades of grey, no characters who are misguided but honestly trying to help, no situations where the question of the right thing to do is murky at best. In that sense, it's a very adolescent-feeling story. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with a bit of escapism now and then; and as escapism goes, this is decently written - informative, snappily paced, satisfying. And politically speaking I'm very much in Doctorow's camp; I don't like how people react when they get scared, I don't like seeing others take advantage of that fear to grab power for themselves, and I strongly mistrust anyone who thinks the solution to a breach of security is the revoking of civil liberties. (I mean, one of my all-time favorite movies is V for Vendetta, fer chrissakes.)

But...this particular narrative was frustrating to me. Because I also strongly mistrust anyone who's utterly certain of the rightness of their position, who never even thinks to question it. The story's complete unwillingness to even acknowledge that there might be a middle ground, that its manifestos might not always be absolute, that people were either good guys or bad, therefore, was enough to turn me off of it somewhat. And then the author went and staged one of my least favorite rhetorical tricks: Hey, let's write the main character into a political debate with a cartoon strawman, and make the kid the mouthpiece for everything right and good in the world! Wow, all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, there, Doctorow.

So, to my somewhat wry amusement, I find myself agreeing wholeheartedly with Mr. Gaiman. If I were thirteen, or sixteen, or even twenty, I would probably have loved this book; at thirty, it's just too simplistic for me to really get behind. The book tells us not to trust anyone over twenty-five, and perhaps that's true; perhaps we "old" folks have a more nuanced viewpoint that's only slowing you young firebrands down. But I hope that as those young firebrands get older and acquire a little more life experience, they'll understand that singleminded belief can be exploited just as easily as fear can - perhaps even more easily. And that when they reach that point, it'll be up to them and their own judgment to decide on the right way forward. C-

More Tales of the Busker

The paid gig is officially set. They've even paid me already - more than a month in advance! - which surprised the heck out of me. (If my writer friends' experiences are anything to go by, getting paid for one's art is generally a much tougher thing, sometimes even when it's offered. Not that I'm complaining, mind.) If you're in town on the 7th of September, come take the garden tour; I'll be hanging out at 123 Clawson Avenue and singing my heart out.

Speaking of my heart (as in something I've set it on), I've decided on my dream guitar. When I was at Rainbow Guitars last, I played a rosewood-and-spruce Taylor Grand Orchestra, their biggest body size. I'm not sure I even have words for the richness and complexity of the sound; rosewood is notorious for its full deep bass, but the size and shape (and Sitka spruce top) helped bring out the midrange and trebles beautifully. I almost want to say I was intimidated by its volume and sound quality, but that's actually completely the opposite of what happened; from the first strum, I knew I had to sing with it. And I did, and it was the most magnificent experience.

I don't want that exact model; the abalone purfling around the outside ("purfling", the term for the decorative trim around the edges of an instrument, is my new favorite word) is a little too blingy for my taste, and the vintage-style brass tuners don't really do it for me either. But like all guitar manufacturers, Taylor will happily do custom orders, with any or all the options you might want. If I can find a design that I like, I'd love to get a rose-vine inlay on the neck and perhaps a matching rose on the bridge. Obviously I don't have a specific price point, but (based on the cost of the 918e) I'm going to guess it'll be in the $6000 range. So that's what I'm saving my music-making money for. It makes for a nice goal - unnecessary enough that there's no rush (at my current average of about $6 a week it'll take me, oh, twenty-odd years to save up that much) but something I'm passionate enough about that it's a motivation to improve. Not to mention that, by the time I can afford it, I should be able to play well enough to deserve such a beautiful instrument.

Meantime, I'm enjoying tooling around with my other two lovely guitars. The last couple of Fridays busking have been a bit cash-poor, but I've amassed a few 'fans' - Bisbee around-town regulars who always come by and listen when I'm playing, despite probably having my entire repertoire memorized by now. Oddly gratifying, that. I also went out and played for an hour by the library in Sierra Vista while I was waiting for an oil change on my car; not exactly the most appreciative audience, but none of the sour-faced retirees who wandered by chewed me out like I was half-expecting, and a couple of kids dropped some change in my hat. (One kid was all "I don't have a dollar, but here, I've got a bottle of water" - in the desert and while you're singing, arguably an even better tip.) And today, since I needed to go downtown for work anyway, I brought my travel guitar and played for a couple of hours afterward. For the first hour, I thought it was going to be a complete bust - I had nothing other than the seed money in my hat and almost nobody was listening. But then a couple of my regulars showed up (one of them even went "Oh hey, I was actually working today, so here" and gave me a couple dollars - awww!), and there was a bit of afternoon traffic, and by the time my fingers gave out I had $10, a bag of mint, and only one mosquito bite (hurrah for remembering bug spray this time). So I came home and had a shower and made myself a mojito. Not a bad day, all told.