When the Largehearted Boy proclaims that something is his all-time favorite ever, I run out and consume whatever that thing might be. That’s what fangirls do. I am still waiting for him to proclaim Michael Cera his all-time favorite Canadian ever, but that’s beside the point.

The point here is that LHB proclaimed that David B’s Epileptic was his favorite graphic novel, even though it’s a memoir (why is it that graphic memoirs are always called graphic novels?). I’d have picked it up based on that endorsement alone, but the luck I’ve had reading graphic memoirs (see: Persepolis, Fun Home, and It’s a Bird) made me extra excited.

Holy crow! This is the kind of book that kicks your ass and ties your brain in a knot. It’s not for the faint of intellect or for those who cannot handle emotions laid bare.

Epileptic, called L’ascension du haut mal (which means The rise of the high evil) in France where it was originally published, tells of David B’s life growing up in the shadow of epilepsy. David isn’t afflicted with the disease, it’s his older brother Jean-Christophe, but the entire family suffers.

Jean-Christophe’s (a name I like to say over and over in my head in my best French through Minnesota accent) parents are desperate to find something to help their son who suffers up to three seizures a day. They drag their three children from macrobiotic commune to shamans to quacks and back again, hoping to find an answer, a cure.

David B. narrates the story with black and white drawings and simple sentences, and somehow the entire book feels incredibly lush and nuanced.

It took a lot of bravery to pen this memoir. Nobody is portrayed in a flattering light. His parents seem desperate and easily conned; Jean-Christophe is excessively needy and at times withdrawn and sullen, never taking responsibility for his life; David B. is at turns immature and at times callous; and poor Florence is the forgotten youngest child.

And yet all this dysfunction is incredibly readable. Throughout the story I kept hoping the family would find an unintrusive way to cope with Jean-Christophe’s disease. I longed for a happy ending, and there was just no way that was possible. But David B.’s unsentimental, emotionally-bare way of telling his story makes reading through the horrors that haunt him both in real life and in his head wholly rewarding.

Many men and women gave their lives so that I would have the freedom to eat charred animal flesh with a side of potato salad in the front yard of people I have known for 30 years. God Bless America!

Today I am cranky. I blame the nap. I didn’t feel all that cranky before the nap, just tired because I was out late betting my unemployment check on the ponies. After the nap? Cranktastic. Or as I call the Tibbles when they get like this, Crankenstien.

Ain’t nothing that I now of that can fix the crankies, so you just have to give in to it. So, I present, a list of things I do not like at all today:

1. My sunburned left elbow. Who the hell thinks to put sunscreen on their left elbow?
2. Sisters #2 & #3 and their inability to see that the very fact that they both weep about their broken relationship while proclaiming, “I’m done with her I don’t care anymore. I’m done.” means they do care and they are not done. This one is really bugging me the most.
3. The fact that I know I cannot fix the sisters’ relationship and yet I still want to fix it.
4. I forgot to eat dinner and now I’m kind of hungry and it’s after 9 p.m.
5. The number five.
6. That my sisters are both social workers who help people deal with their emotional problems and what not and yet. . .
7. This self-indulgent list and that didn’t make me feel any better.
8. Sarah Palin.
9. My messy house.
10. This damn day.

One of the things not allowed is a TV. This isn’t a very difficult rule to follow because I’ve never had a TV in my room. Bedtime is reading time, and has been ever since I was a kid (when I first started suffering from insomnia). In fact, none of the Sister Club are bedroom TV watchers.

The other unallowable is a computer. This is a rule that only came into being after I spent most of the late 90s and early oughts chatting online instead of sleeping.

The third thing not to cross my boudoir’s threshold is an alarm clock. This was banned on the advice of my doctor who said watching the hours click by on the clock wasn’t going to help me sleep, and would only make me feel more frustrated and hopeless. She was right.

Banning the alarm clock was easy because I had a cell phone with an alarm. My poor eyesight plus a teeny, unlit cell phone display made for a wonderful pairing.

This was all well and good until Ziggy came into my life a few weeks ago. Now my cell phone is a computer.

Uh oh.

I wish I could say I’m not the kind of person who would sprawl out, belly-down on the bed and type away with two fingers like someone was egiving away a gold medal in naked late-night two-fingered typing. However, I am exacly that kind of person.

Though I am giving myself a little credit, because it’s taken me like three weeks to actually post from Ziggy while in bed and that’s the most self-restraint I’ve shown in years.

Patty was under some misguided notion that children should go outside and play, get fresh air, or some other kind of insanity. She seemed to overlook that I wasn’t a go outside and play kind of kid. No, I was the kid who spent a lot of time memorizing the TV Guide and who could tell you, without referring back to the periodical if The Love Boat was going to be a rerun that week.

Her favorite North Star was Gordie Roberts too, which is all kinds of wrong. Obviously Neal Broten, Willi Plett, and Dino Ciccarelli were the only North Stars eligible for favorite status.

So yeah, not a M*A*S*H fan. Nothing makes me leap for the remote like hearing the opening lines of the theme.

Imagine my shock and horror today when I discovered Quantum Leap’s 3 p.m. time slot on ION television had been usurped by that melodramatic dreck from the 70s. Boo. Hiss.

The world does not need more comedies about war, especially in rerun. No what the world needs is more Sam Beckett leaping from life to life, striving to put right what once went wrong, and hoping each time his next leap will be his leap home.

Fucking M*A*SH is totally ruining my unemployment summer buzz.

Before I even typed a word, I thought, “Hrmm, I should see if any of those pictures on Ziggy turned out.”

So then I had to spend at least eight minutes looking for an iPod/iPhone cord. The fact that it took eight minutes is absolutely ridiculous because I have about eleven cords, at least it seems like I have eleven cords.

Once I found the cord, I decided that it would be so much awesomer if I had an iPhone app that let me upload right to Flickr. So then I had to go to the iTunes store, but before I could do that I realized I had to listen to “Ball and Chain” by Social D, because I had been singing that line “a broken nose and a broken heart and an empty bottle of gin” line all day.

Then of course I had to read more about the Alice Hoffman meltdown over on Salon, because someone tweeted about it.

Then the next thing I know, I’m reading MinnPost and have totally forgotten what the hell I was doing.

ADD, it’s what’s for dinner.

Last year, when I started the Rock & Roll June endeavor (whereby I only read Rock & Roll flavored books for an entire month) one of the I Will Dare readers suggested Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist. Since I was mired in the endless Rock & Roll bios on recoupable debt, I never got around to reading it.

Then the movie came out with Michael Cera in it, and it took all my self-control to not see the movie because I really did eventually want to read that book. I have the kind of old-lady crush on Michael Cera that makes me feel like a cross between Humbert Humbert and coo-coo-cachoo Mrs. Robinson, so you can see what kind of self-control it took to not see that movie.

I’m so glad I waited. After actually reading Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist, I might not ever see the movie. There’s just no way the movie could do justice to the book’s frenetic, stream-of-conscious narrative that was unbelievably engaging despite the fact that all signs pointed to incredibly annoying.

Told in chapters that alternate from Nick’s and then Norah’s point of view, the book follows the high school seniors through a crazy New York City night fueled by punk rock, heart break, and discovery. The endless night is kicked off at club where Nick’s band, The Fuckoffs (he’s the bassist in the queercore band), has just played. From the stage Nick had spied Tris, his most recent (3 weeks and 3 days ago) ex-girlfriend. Once he’s mingling in the crowd he decides to make her jealous/show her how over her he is, and he asks Norah to be his five-minute girlfriend.

Norah, the daughter of a fat cat, big deal record exec, is a good Jewish girl who goes to the same Catholic school (because her BFF Caroline who may have a drinking problem can’t seem to not get kicked out of the better private schools in the New Jersey area) as Tris, decides that yes she will be Nick’s five-minute girlfriend. She acquiesces in hopes he will give she and an inebriated Caroline a ride back to Jersey.

The two share an electrifying kiss in full view of Tris (who cares only a little bit that her ex and her frenemy are kissing) and then head out with plans of going home. However, Nick’s bandmates slide Norah a fifty and beg her to take him out on the town in the vague hope it will help Nick get over Tris. Before the two can escape, Norah runs into her own evil ex, Tal, an Israeli who she’s had an on again, off again relationship.

Tal’s a jackass who has convinced Norah that she’s not just sexually inept, but frigid. Poor Norah.

So you got two hurting teens hurtling through Manhattan on a crazy night of trying to forget their Exs, trying to deny their attraction to each other, and just generally being stupid teenagers who love music.

The music infiltrates this book, providing a backbeat for all of Nick and Norah’s adventure and the one thing that initially draws them together. Wilco, The Cure, Michael Jackson, the Beatles, Patti Smith, Belle & Sebastian, Green Day, the Clash, Parliament . . . those are just a few of the bands mentioned in the book (the few I can rattle off the top of my head). Anyone who has ever had that spark of attraction and excitement that comes with being musically connected with someone will love this book.

Sure it’s filled with the kid of teenage melodrama that can often cause anyone over the age of 26 to roll their eyes, but the book is so genuine, nailing that desire, the use of the word fuck to express every emotion, the fear of being vulnerable with someone who totally excites you on every level, and the absolute sureness that you will be rejected because this, this is too good to be true.

Is the book perfect? Hell no. The last scene which involves jumping a subway turnstyle is so hackneyed and cliched and, overwrought that I audibly groaned. And there’s Norah’s weird knowledge of mid-90s culture (think My So-Called Life) which seems odd for someone who would have only been like six at the height of grunge culture.

You now what, none of that matters, because the book works. It’s a goobery, teenybopper romance, but it’s charming, well-written (I can’t believe how well the alternating chapters work), and infinitely enjoyable.

I loved reading this book so much I’m a little disturbed. I’m an unabashed, unapologetic Twilight hater. In fact, the legions of thirtysomething woman who rave about these books kind of creep me out. But here I am pondering joining some sort of I *Heart* Nick O’Leary fanclub on Facebook.

The death of an icon like Michael Jackson is one of those unifying events that reminds us how very much we have in common. I would defy you to find an American thirty-something who cannot remember the first time they saw Michael Jackson dance, scooting across the floor in a motion that we didn’t even have words for yet. It was only later that we learned it was called the Moonwalk.

Like most girls my age, Michael Jackson and his music was very much a part of my childhood. He was so important, I remember the slumber party we had when we finally rented the Thriller video (that included the making of). This was before cable had come to Blaine, Minnesota, there was no MTV.

There are no words that seem capable of expressing the emotion that comes when the “luv” of your life dies. Everything seems inadequate and cliche and an echo of everything else being said.

When your name is Jodi Chromey (and I believe their might be two of us, though the other one is Jodie Cromie or Jody Kromey or something like that, which, I am sure we can all agree, is vastly inferior to Jodi Chromey) you develop a love/hate relationship with Kodachrome at an early age, and you will feel really sad when Kodak decides to discontinue Kodachrome color film.

For most of your childhood you will be blissfully unaware for the song or the film. You’re completely ignorant of Paul Simon’s solo singing career and all you know about him is that he’s not Art Garfunkel. Even though you couldn’t name a song by Simon & Garfunkel until you were sixteen, you spent a lot of time studying their record jackets and based solely on the picture, you’re sure Art is the creative genius behind the duo. This is beginning of your career of backing the wrong horse and routing for the underdog all at the same time.

In 8th grade band you’re the first chair alto saxophone player, which means that you sit right in front of the trombones. Jason Kneizler plays the trombone. On that fateful day when Mr. Campbell hands out the sheet music for the new song you’re learning (apparently having grown tired of “New York, New York”), Jason will be the one to first realize that Jodi Chromey is a lot like Kodachrome, the song on the sheet music. For reasons that can only be explained by the fact that you’re thirteen and hate everything that isn’t Sweet Valley High, Dance Party, USA or Cam Anderson, you decide to detest the name. In fact you take such a disliking to the name that you write about it all the time in your journal, though secretly deep down you kind of like it because for about a week in November you have a crush on Jason. Besides, in your mind Paul Simon is a nerdy dud. It will be another year until you really fall in love with the song “You Can Call Me Al,” again for reasons that cannot be explained.

When you’re a junior in high school you watch Kenny Rosen and Mike Obremski sing “Sounds of Silence” for a choir concert, re-igniting your interest in Art Garfunkel and that dopey Simon guy. You spend the entire summer between Junior and Senior year discovering the music of the 60s, developing a serious Bob Dylan fetish and an annoying habit of thinking every song Simon & Garfunkel wrote was about you. This leads you to scrawl the lyrics to “I am a Rock” and “The Boxer” all over you journal, the cover of which you decorated with a hundred peace signs. Eventually you will discover Paul Simon ain’t so bad, and that you really dig his greatest hits.

You’ll forget all about Paul Simon and band and Kodachrome once you leave for college because you’ll be too busy discovering Pearl Jam, the Gin Blossoms, the Spin Doctors, and beer. However, eventually you’ll take that color photography class and be subjected to hour long lectures about the pros and cons of using Kodachrome over Fuji Film. Since you are now twenty, you have decided that you need to be a tragic heroine of some sort. This silly notion will plague you for most of your twenties. For your favorite kind of reasons, the inexplicable ones, you will decide being called names in Jr. High is your big tragedy, ignoring, of course, that you’re a fat, 6′5″ virgin. Instead, because of your great tragedy, you will eschew shooting Kodachrome on principle and instead use the more expensive Ektachrome (Paul Simon should have wrote a song about that because calling Sister #2, whose name is Ericka, Ektachrome would have been funny), until your pocket book wins out and you begrudgingly use Kodachrome, and it is good.

In your thirties you embrace your completely psycho relationship with the word, the song, the thing — Kodachrome. You will embrace it so much that whenever you listen to Paul Simon’s “Kodachrome” which is a lot, especially that one summer you were unemployed and only listened to 70s music, you sing your own name instead of the actual words. You’re weird like that.

What’s your favorite color?
Liam: Uh, blue. Because I like it.
Nolan: Blue is lame.
Liam: Nuhuh, red and green is lame.
Liam: what are you typing? Are you typing blue. What are you doing?
Liam: I like blue

What’s your favorite song
Liam: I don’t know. What song do you like?
Me (singing): Doctor my eyes have seen the tears
Liam: I don’t like that. What are you typing?
Me: So what’s your favorite song?
Liam: I don’t know
Me: What song do you like to sing?
Liam: I don’t know. What are you typing? I don’t want to sing a song. I like the ants go up and down song. I like that song.

What’s your favorite TV show?
Liam: Uh, what TV show do you like? Tell me, all the TV shows you like. Tell me, Tell me.
Me: I like The Office.
Liam: No. I don’t like holding this. (He hands the Tattoo Pen to me). I don’t like holding this. Let’s cap it up and put it where it belongs.
Me: Okay, okay.
Liam: I love Spongebob Squarepants TV show. I like to watch that TV show. I didn’t know that, because I really like Spongebob and on Spongebob Squarepants there is Spongebob.
Me: What do you like about it?
Liam: Spongebob and Patrick.
Me: Why?
Liam: Because.

What’s your favorite animal?
Liam: Monkey. They are funny and they like to eat bananas.

What’s your favorite food?
Liam; Macaroni and Cheese AND Shells and Cheese AND Enchiladas
Nolan: Enchiladas? (barfing sound)

Who is your favorite Superhero?
Liam: Spiderman. Because.
Nolan: Because he is lame.
Cade: No, no because he shoots webs out and traps them.
Nolan: I like Superman because he has superstrength and he flies.