Book report time: This is what I've become

(Ed. note: In this column, named after a favorite God Bullies song, we review things we're reading. Zines, books, etc. Send us yours.)

I'm a man who checks to see if the coast is clear so I can bring another couple of books into our house. It strikes me as odd. Some people sneak drugs and alcohol, smut or porn, Twinkies and potato chips, but I sneak books into the house. I'm way more afraid of the judgment day that comes from book sneaking than I ever was when I was ashamed at spending too much at the dispensary.

I think to myself, I'm an adult for chrissakes, and if I want to add another book I might not ever read to the pile, then I should be able to do so. They make me feel good. The hunt, you know, and the last two I snuck in were from the little shack at the Rangeley Transfer Station, so they were free. Their only trespass is taking up space.

I'm interested in reading them, too. One is a nicely bound hardback anthology of essays by known writers about New York. I've read enough about that place in my lifetime to fill many book reviews, but I can never seem to get enough. If reincarnation is a thing that exists outside of books and stories, I've probably had a life there. Maybe in a parallel universe, I'm sitting in New York right now writing about another place I'd like to spend more time in.

The second book I got at the "Rangeley Walmart," as the little building is affectionately known, is The Chosen by Chaim Potok. I remember loving the movie with Robby Benson as a kid, so I'll read the book at some point, too. Maybe I'll start a collection of books that marginal 1980s movies were based on, and I'll be the envy of all my friends.

Last summer, I picked up a copy of The Wanderers by Richard Price at the Strand's Central Park pop-up. I really enjoyed it, and I typically watch the 1979 film (there goes my '80s marginal movie collection — TKO on misuse of dates) whenever I see it somewhere. Karen Allen is in it. When I was a teenager, I had a major crush on her.

I thought about donating The Wanderers to the Rangeley Walmart, but I couldn't do it. I'll probably read it again. I like doing that. This is probably why the expectation has been set that I no longer bring more books into the house. I never get rid of them.

This is what I've become.

In an effort, though, to bring balance to the universe in my own small way, I have decided to spend even more of my spare time reading or listening to a book. In the last week, I have revisited my old pal Charles Bukowski, and I am just about done listening to Ham on Rye. I thought I had read that back in 1991 while I lived in Berkeley, but I'm thinking I never finished it or I'm getting confused because I read my roommate's copy of Hot Water Music and I'm schmergling them together.

I've decided that listening to a book is acceptable, and while not as fulfilling, ultimately, holding a book, turning pages, and eventually placing said book on a pile of other books that you have read still scratches a certain itch. I'm guessing Henry Chinaski would equate this theory to something like punching someone behind their ear or getting kicked in the ribs. Either way, you're still fighting, still saying fuck you to someone or something despite yourself.

Two weeks ago, I listened to Junky by William S. Burroughs. It was a strange listen as I hiked up Bald Mountain in Oquossoc, Maine, and then finished it while doing my exercises each morning. Something about the rhythm of Burroughs' words made exercising more palatable.

I need to choose my next audiobook wisely, I suppose, after Burroughs and Bukowski. I'll have to see what is available from the library. I highly recommend their Hoopla app. There is a lot of great stuff available there, and you can listen for free.

For the books I hold in my hand, I just finished A Man Called Ove by Frederik Backman. This was a repeat for me as we listened to the most excellent J.K. Simmons reading it as we drove through Utah and Colorado. It's a lovely book, and I enjoyed listening to it and reading it. I cried both times, too, in a couple of different places in the story.

I moved on to another Backman book, too. This one is the second part of the Beartown trilogy, Us Against You. We listened to Beartown after A Man Called Ove, and I'm regretting not getting the first book and reading it, as well. I think, though, it is the ugly voice of my book addiction echoing in my brain.

"It will feel good to buy the book, Tom," it is saying. "Feed me."

That's what it is all about, I suppose. Feeding the monster that lives inside my head that devours words like they are yogurt peanuts and nonpareils. That monster says "go to the bookstore. Find those elusive titles. Buy the books, find the books, stack them, and read."

I give in.

This is what I've become, and I'm okay with it, even if it means the occasional stealth mission of finding a way to bring a few more in with no one noticing.

*****

Only 40% of adults in the USA read a book last year is a statistic I just read, and 19% of those who read accounted for 82% of all the reading that took place. I wonder how accurate that really is, but I also know that most of my friends won't even read this, and it's about 1% of the length of the average book that comes out these days.

If you ever want to talk about books, I'm here to help. One page at a time.