My only experience with Richard Osman comes from watching him compete in Taskmaster Season 2, where I thought he was quite funny. So when my wife pulled The Thursday Murder Club out of a Little Free Library in our neighbourhood, I was intrigued to see just what the tall funny man wanted to write about.
The Thursday Murder Club takes place at a retirement facility named Coopers Chase, and consists of 4 retirees who meet every Thursday to review cold cases to see if they can solve murders by noticing details that the police of the day overlooked. Much of the story is told from Joyce’s diary, as she is the newest member of the Thursday Murder Club, now that Penny (who was a former police detective) has had to quit due to dementia.
What follows is a story about a new development being planned at Coopers Chase (the retirement community), and the sudden murder of the lead builder (Tony), and shortly after, the landowner (Ian). The Thursday Murder Club is excited at the idea of a fresh case that just landed in their laps, and take it upon themselves to solve the crime before the police do.
The characters in The Thursday Murder Club are delightful. From the mysterious Elizabeth, who seems to have been everywhere and still holds a valid tank operator’s license, to surly and argumentative Ron, to tech-savvy and meticulous Ibrahim. Each character has lived a long life, and they use their experiences and connections to uncover mysteries. That said, there are a LOT of characters. Outside of the 4 main characters, there’s another 70 characters to juggle in your brain as they all pop in and out of the story.
The Thursday Murder Club is a stellar book from first time author Richard Osman. It should come as no surprise that he can write well, considering he’s been writing and entertaining on TV for decades. But still, I wasn’t quite ready for just how much I enjoyed this book.
At least part of my enjoyment comes from the protagonists being septuagenarians. They’re immediately disarming and overlooked, which kind of makes them the best people to manipulate the cops and follow-up leads with potential murderers. There are a couple of twists in the book, right from the start, as Tony is planning to kill Ian after Ian cuts him out of a deal, but then gets wacked off instead. Then a couple of days later, Ian is murdered regardless, snuffing the prime suspect in the Tony murder case. And in between all this, a 3rd body is discovered. These murders all seem obviously related, but watching each thread unravel is a delightful journey.
A criticism, I do have, is the idea of a few of the older characters so quickly committing suicide after a brief conversation with the authorities. Sure, they could have been living with their guilt for decades, but it felt a little icky when multiple characters had their past sins revealed, only for them to immediately off themselves, even if only to alleviate them from suspicion of the main murders.
I do think I would characterize The Thursday Murder Club as a comedy book with a mystery, rather than a mystery book with humour. It may seem like an odd distinction, but armchair Sherlocks will probably find themselves at least a little disappointed by the conclusion. The Thursday Murder Club is not for diehards of the murder mystery genre or for the true crime aficionados, but instead more for fans of Only Murders in the Building, and those who want a delightfully dramatic journey with some quirky old people.
Oh, it’s also very English. A bunch of old English people prattling on, using their specific slang and terms, such as using stones as measurement for a person’s weight. Personally, I found it charming, but I can see others taking umbrage with the distinctly English voice.
While the mystery itself didn’t fully grip me, the characters absolutely did. I fell in love with each of them, and I’m already itching to dive into book two. If you’re looking for a cozy, character-driven whodunit with heart and humour, this one is worth the read.
Let me preface this by saying I usually steer well clear of the entire horror genre. As a kid I watched the classics, and read my fair share of Goosebumps books, but in my teen years movies like Saw and Hostel absolutely sent me running from the whole vibe. So when I say I devoured The September House in two sittings and loved every psychologically unsettling moment of it? That should carry some weight.
Here’s the premise: Margaret and her husband buy a suspiciously affordable, beautiful Victorian house in the woods. Shortly after taking ownership, they realize it’s haunted. Oh bother. Except this is no slow-build ghost story. The house goes full Exorcist every September. Walls gush blood, ghosts appear, each of them more broken and gruesome than the last. Something unspeakable lives in the basement. Hal (the husband) nopes out after four years. Margaret stays. Margaret stays.
This is where The September House hooked me. Margaret isn’t your typical horror heroine. She’s older. Reserved. Gripping to her routine and rules like it’s a life raft. She’s flexible. She doesn’t scream when the walls bleed, she rolls up her sleeves and cleans the mess. I found her fascinating. Funny, even. She reacts to supernatural carnage the same way a tired parent reacts to a toddler’s tantrum: with quiet, unflappable endurance and a mildly exasperated expletive.
The horror of The September House isn’t just spectral. It’s deeply psychological. Margret’s 30-year-old daughter Katherine discovers that her father has left Margret, and is now refusing to answer her phone calls, she descends upon the house in the middle of September. Margret tries her best to reason with the poltergeists (called Pranksters), and shield her daughter from the supernatural horrors, going as far as to slip Katherine sleeping pills so she won’t hear the ethereal howling that happens every night. The September House becomes more about the lies we tell to keep our own sense of safety intact. About what we’re willing to ignore, to normalize, cope with, and even to cover up, if it means holding on to a version of life that feels bearable.
I laughed. A lot. Not because it’s slapstick or silly, but because the dark comedy is interwoven brilliantly. Margaret’s narration is deadpan, bored, and describes the events as utterly mundane, even when she’s casually dealing with flies coming out of a 90-year-old priest (Well that’s never happened before), or that one pesky prankster who bites if you get too close (You just need to respect his personal space).
But then, slowly, You’re starting to pull back the layers. The real horror creeps up on you, not through cheap jump scares, but through slow, dawning realization. You start to ask yourself: Wait, what actually happened here? What has Margaret been dealing with all this time? Why is she so good at following these rules? Are her descriptions actually happening, or is this all happening in her head? An elaborate story she’s conjured up to cope with something real and horrific?
Would I call it horror? Absolutely, the final act cements it. There are certainly memorably grotesque moments. But it’s also a fascinating subversion of the genre. It’s more of a psychological thriller with a horror coat of paint. I’m so glad I gave The September House a shot and didn’t let my horror aversion stop me. This book is going to stick with me for a while, not because of the blood on the walls, but because of the way it used psychology to show who the real terrors are.
Tokyo Vice is a memoir by Jake Adelstein. As a young adult, he moved to Japan and managed to land a job at the prestigious Yomiuri Shinbun, the first gaijin (foreigner) to do so. The book covers over a decade of his experience reporting on the police beat, and eventually covering the Vice squad, bringing him face to face with Japan’s human trafficking and prostitution rings.
One of the main reasons I choose to read memoirs, is to get a glimpse of lives and experiences that are wholly different from my own, and Tokyo Vice fills that requirement wonderfully. Adelstein tells wild stories that I (thankfully) have never come across in my own life. I can’t help but respect Adelstein for having the courage to move to Japan and live in a culture so different from the one he was born and raised in.
The stories he shares often highlight his own incompetence, either real, or acted out. Adelstein uses his foreigner-ness to get away with plenty of acts that other people would be punished for, such as crossing police tape after a massive shooting.
As Mark mentioned in his podcast, there are some criticisms, accusing Adelstein of embellishing his stories, but I don’t think that matters to me very much. I didn’t read Tokyo Vice expecting an objective reporting of facts, this is his story to tell, and he can tell it how he wants. I appreciate that throughout the book, Adelstein rarely made himself out to be a big damn hero, smarter and stronger than everyone else. Instead, a lot of his stories focus on how lucky he was, or how often he made blunders.
I’m reminded that Frank McCourt’s book, Angela’s Ashes, also was the subject to a fair amount of criticisms from the residents of Limerick, saying his book was not an accurate portrayal of life in the city. On some level, I assume those slinging criticisms are stung when someone speaks badly about something they adore. In the case of Tokyo Vice, and the events Adelstein depicts, I am wholly ignorant. Sure, I’ve watched a lot of anime, and I knew of some of the words and places Adelstein references, like Yakuza and Ikebukuro, but I have no real understanding about the places or the culture surrounding it. I do know a lot of people have very fond memories and ideas about Japan and its culture, and Adelstein’s stories about the sex trade and how women are exploited, run afoul of their love for the country as a whole, especially when he calls Japan the king of the sex traffic trade. I may be completely off base in my assumption, but hey, I’m just an ignorant dude with a keyboard.
I found it utterly infuriating when Adelstein tries talking to the police about the women who were being trafficked in Japan. The cops can’t or won’t take action, because if any of the women come forward, they have to be arrested, as they are often in Japan on a tourist visa, or otherwise in the country illegally, so, they must be deported. By imprisoning and deporting the victims, they are unable to build a reliable case against those harming others. A vicious circle that requires laws to change, and while the cops aren’t the ones writing the laws, it is frustrating when the letter of the law runs afoul against the spirit of the justice system and prevents victims from receiving any kind of help. Now, Tokyo Vice was originally published in 2009, so it’s entirely possible that things have changed in the past 15 years, perhaps my next reading assignment will be to see how things have changed, I see Adelstein published Tokyo Noir in 2004, perhaps that book will answer my questions.
I will say that I’m becoming increasingly less keen on Authors reading their own books. Adelstein did a good job narrating his story, and having his voice deliver his tale is a unique and intimate experience, but there were a few moments where I felt like his cadence was off, or a joke didn’t land quite right. I had a similar experience when I listened to Deryck Whibley from Sum 41 read his book,Walking Disaster: My Life Through Heaven and Hell. Juxtapose Whibley and Adelstein’s books against Bill Gates’ recent book, Source Code, read by Wil Wheaton. Gates’ book was much less interesting, and dare I say, pretty boring, but Wil’s voice acting and reading was much more enjoyable.
Tokyo Vice was a compelling book. While I don’t usually seek out cop or crime stories (unless it’s Brooklyn Nine-Nine), I thoroughly enjoyed Adelstein’s story, and it made me appreciate those who do the work to bring these stories to the light. For every Lucie Blackman, whose disappearance makes the news, there are hundreds more that just simply don’t. Without people to shake the cages of the establishment, who knows what kind of filth would be swept under the carpet, even more than what is already overlooked. While Tokyo Vice doesn’t offer a neat resolution or profound philosophical takeaway, that absence feels honest to the world Adelstein describes, messy, unresolved, and often frustrating. Tokyo Vice is a series of glimpses into the shadows, each story shedding light on people and systems we’d often rather pretend don’t actually exist. I walked away with a deeper respect for those who keep shining that light, even when the job offers little glory and even less closure.
I’ll also include a link to Jake’s website, Japan Subculture if you’re interested in the stories he continues to tell https://www.japansubculture.com/
It’s been a while since I did a book review. I started a new job in January, and that really took up all of my reading time. But one of my best friends recommended How to Become the Dark Lord and Die Trying by Django Wexler to me. HtBtDLaDT is basically Groundhog Day meets Deadpool with a dash of Guardians of the Galaxy. It’s a darkly humourous fantasy romp about what happens when the hero decides she’s done playing nice.
Davi was summoned to another world to save it from the Dark Lord. Noble enough. Except she’s failed. Hundreds of times. Every death sends her right back to the beginning, waking up in the same pool or water, in the same damn forest, being exposited to by the same old man, doomed to repeat the same futile quest. After 277 tries and over a thousand cumulative years of dying in increasingly ridiculous, tragic, and stupid ways… she snaps.
Screw destiny. Screw the prophecy. If the Dark Lord always wins, it’s time she joined the winning side.
Armed with centuries of knowledge, a fraying sense of morality, and an immature brand of gallows humour, Davi sets out to become the next Dark Lord. First step, she just needs a horde to take her to the convocation where the Dark Lord is crowned. How hard could that be?
HtBtDLaDT is told in Davi’s unhinged first-person voice, often careening between swaggering confidence and total panic. This is a tale of necromancy, time loops, save-scumming, and what happens when the ‘chosen one’ decides she’s had enough of being chosen.
Let’s get this out of the way up front: I’m annoyed. Not because the book is necessarily bad, but because it ends on such a blatant cliffhanger that it feels like half a story. I don’t mind a good sequel hook, but I like a book to stand on its own, at least a little. This was written with a blinking “To Be Continued…” sign hanging over every major plot thread.
My second major complaint came early, and it stuck with me the whole way through. The narrator, Davi, offhandedly says something like “I think I’m from Earth? Like, I know Darth Vader is Luke’s father, or something?” and then proceeds to pepper the rest of the story with modern pop culture references like she just stepped out of a Reddit comment thread. It immediately gave me Ready Player One flashbacks, but without the contextual justification. In RPO, the character was raised on a steady diet of retro media, so it made sense within the context. In How to Become the Dark Lord and Die Trying, it felt jarring and out of place. A relentless stream of quips, one-liners, and pop culture references that constantly yanked me out of the high fantasy setting the book was trying to build.
And speaking of the setting, it had so much potential. The early parts, with the time loop playing a major role, and Davi experimenting with different outcomes, it felt sharp and fun. I loved the save-scumming vibes and the mild panic that crept into her narration when a time fork turned sour. But then… it just sort of softened. The world turned cozy. Characters were chipper. Consequences were few and far between. Even the main consequence of dying and having to start again feels flat. She says there’s no guarantee that she could make it back to the same spot a second time, but I don’t believe her complaints of having to redo a few months when she’s already lived for a thousand years.
Davi herself is chaotic, in that annoying terminally online young millennialhow kind of way. Very Deadpool-esque or Harley Quinn. She’s unhinged, quippy, and a bit of a jerk, which can work, but I didn’t find her particularly believable as a rising Dark Lord. She doesn’t lead so much as stumble into leadership, and her “horde” follows her with an ease that felt unearned. None of her captains challenge her authority in a meaningful way, and given how little she inspires, intimidates, or even organizes them, I couldn’t really buy that she was holding this would-be evil empire together. She’s woefully sincere and caring for someone aspiring to Dark Lord-om.
That said, HtBtDLaDT isn’t without its charms. I really enjoyed the initial worldbuilding, especially how the magic system was explained and used. The ending, in particular, where Davi overcomes a giant worm beast using the nuances of that magic system. Getting swallowed whole and then blowing it up from the inside? Genuinely me laugh
So, will I read the second book? Begrudgingly, yes. I’ve got it on hold at the library, and it’s the kind of story that’s decent to listen to while I’m working. But How to Become the Dark Lord and Die Trying isn’t cracking my top ten books anytime soon. It had a solid premise, flashes of brilliance, and a narrator who was fun in theory, but in execution, it all felt a bit too thin, too try-hard, and too sincere to really stick the landing of the “Dark Lord” moniker.
I’m going to start with a disclaimer. I should not be reviewing this book. I am so far removed from the music scene, that I honestly have no business weighing in with my thoughts and opinions. I don’t have real passion for music, either creatively or even recreationally. Sure, I have bands that I dig, but sitting down with a new album isn’t something I ever really look forward to, nor am I ever really seeking out new bands to fill out my playlists. I don’t use music to calm down or get amped up. The best I can offer is that putting on video game lo-fi tunes can help me work or go to sleep, sometimes. I don’t go to concerts or shows, and I’m so far removed from the pop culture discourse that it might as well be a different language for me.
The great exception is Sum 41. I’ve adored Sum 41‘s music since I stole my sister’s CD of All Killer No Filler when I was just a 12-year-old kid. Growing up in an isolated community, the only music on the radio was old country, and the best tapes around town were our parent’s hits from the 1970s that they bought in gas stations on the way home from the city, 4 hours away. Sum 41‘s pop-punk album had such an energy that I just couldn’t help but listen to it on repeat, over and over. I can’t tell you how many times I walked to and from school blaring All Killer No Filler in my Sony Walkman. This eventually got replaced with Chuck, which I liked even more. Growing up and changing through-out the years, Sum41
Enough about me. Walking Disaster: My Life Through Heaven and Hell is Sum 41’s frontman, Deryck Whibley’s memoir. Released in October 2024, half a year after their final (double) album, Heaven :x: Hell, and as they’re halfway through their goodbye tour, this book offers a unique insight to the band’s origins, group dynamics, and his own struggles.
Deryck begins at the beginning. His earliest memories, where he and his teenage mom moved from apartment to apartment 19 times before he turned 7. The small semblances of stability that showed up turn out to be fleeting, as the man he thought was his father moved out without a word. He talks about school bullies, being a punk in a prep/jock school, and meeting his bandmates, and how meeing Greig Nori propelled him and his band into the rock and roll party world.
Personally, I’m about as un-punk as someone can get. I’m a conformist, my high sense of duty doesn’t let me break rules, but I found myself relating to Deryck’s story. I also grew up with a single mother, bullied in school, and got into my own small number of fights. Our paths diverged when he picked up his guitar, and when he started taking drugs from Greig Nori. Sum 41’s first tour had a $0 budget for gas, they just filled up at stations and peeled away. There mere thought of doing so makes my skin crawl.
Deryck doesn’t express remorse for their chaotic punk lifestyle in their late teens and early 20’s. The trashed hotel rooms, the destruction they wrought, was their right. No words are spared for the souls who have to clean up after them, the people who have to clean up after their debauchery. Instead, a lot of the book reads as a factual retelling of the events of his life. “This happened, then this happened. So and So from such and such bands were there”. He doesn’t try to pass their actions off as anything other than, what they actually did. It doesn’t revel in the glamour, it’s just what happened.
For anyone who has been tangentially aware of Sum 41 over the last 20 years, you’d probably be aware of Their abruptly cancelled shows, Deryck’s back injuries, and his brush with death via kidney and liver failure in 2014. He talks about his herniated disk that he self-medicated with Advil and liquor for years, but doesn’t spend any time on digging into the roots of his addictions. We can all draw our on conclusions, such as a psychologically abusive manager, and being thrust into a gruelling tour lifestyle away from any semblance of supports at such a young age. He talks about his fling with Paris and how the band reacted, his marriage with Avril and how the band reacted, their divorce and how the band reacted, you may get the picture. Several of the people in the book get painted with a harsh brush, such as Deryck’s perspective of Stevo only caring about Deryck as long as the paycheques kept coming. And it’s important to remember that this is all Deryck’s perspective. He doesn’t dwell how his circumstances affected his bandmates, but plenty of ink is spent on how his bandmates reacted.
It’s fascinating how Deryck lays out the grooming and abusive behaviours of Greig Nori, but repeats several times throughout the book that he didn’t feel like a victim. He wanted to be a part of the rock and roll circus, that he wanted to be around Greig, but just as friends. How everyone who he divulged his story to blatantly told him, “What the fuck? That’s abuse!” and he replies with a “no, no. It’s more complicated than that.” My heart bleeds for the kid who snuck backstage to meet his idols, and was rewarded with a decade of pain.
As a book, the writing didn’t grab or engage me, but it does feel honest and raw. As I said above, the book reads like a list of facts, not much time spent embellishing his inner monologue beyond a “What the fuck!?”. The audiobook represents a dual edged problem. On one hand, Deryck is not a talented audiobook narrator, it sounds like he’s reading words, not telling a story. But there is power in his story being told in his words with his voice. And a few moments throughout the book we’re treated to piano renditions of some of his best lyrics, which were delightful treats and reminds you why you are a Sum 41 fan. I find myself very curious to find some of the other band members responses to Deryck’s book, as some of their protrayls come across as less than stellar. But I also hope that I never find them. I wish nothing but peace and happiness for Deryck as he enters the next chapter of life, I don’t want him to be dragged down by a myriad of interpersonal drama.
I loved reading Deryck’s story, but I don’t think it will be a terribly engaging read if you’re not a Sum 41 fan, or don’t recognize the deluge of names Deryck lists off. As a Sum 41 fan, I loved reading Walking Disaster: My Life Through Heaven and Hell. It feels honest and unfiltered. A behind the scenes recap of the whirlwind that produced so much amazing music. Since reading it, I’ve been playing my favourite albums on repeat (Chuck, Underclass Hero, Screaming Bloody Murder) and have even spent more time listening to the albums that I was originally not a very big fan of (Half hour of Power, Order in Decline, 13 Voices), and have started to really enjoy them as well. If you’re like me, a Canadian kid who grew up listening to these guys rocking out, Walking Disaster: My Life Through Heaven and Hell is a must-read.
In the second page of Ducks: Two Years in the Oil Sands by Kate Beaton, she talks about how Cape Breton used to export fish, coal, and steel; but in 2005, its main export is people. Empty chairs around tables, fathers, siblings, cousins gone to Ontario or Alberta. “The only message we got about a better future was that we had to leave home to have one. We did not question it, because this is the have-not region of a have-not province, and it has not boomed here in generations” and then a few pages later “I learn that I can have opportunity or I have a home. I cannot have both”.
The introduction hit me hard. I grew up in northern Manitoba, in an ex-mining community, population ~700. The mine shut down a few years before I was born, and the 17 years I lived there were marked with a slow exodus of people. What separates my experience from Kate Beaton’s, is that she has a love for her home, her community. She is an East Coaster, an Islander. It’s a part of her identity, and she’s proud of it, it’s her safe place. I don’t have that same reverence for northern Manitoba. I didn’t have a large family or cousins nearby, or really a tight community. I suspect part of that has to do with isolation, there was no other town around us for 100 Kms, and the next town over was another ex-mining town also in decline. The closest “boom” town was Thompson, 300Kms away.
I suspect another part of why Kate has a heritage while I do not is that Cape Breton has history. The first settlers arrived in 1605, and setting hamlets all over the island. While Kate’s hometown of Mabou is only slightly more populous than my hometown, there are hundreds of years of history in Cape Breton. People being proud of their homestead. My hometown was founded in 1950, with most of the homes in the town having been moved across over the frozen lake after a nearby mine ran dry. We didn’t have generations of history to establish ourselves, we had a single generation of transplants.
I’m getting away from the point here. What I’m trying to say is Kate’s words hit me hard. As an adult that feels without a real hometown, I get the melancholy she’s expressing here. Mine is a bit more bitter, but I can relate.
Kate chooses to move to Alberta to work in the oil sands until she can pay off her crippling student debt. She graduated from a University with an arts degree, paid for entirely by student loans. She feels like a boot has been pressed against her neck, and she’ll never be able to pay them off if she chooses to stay on Cape Breton Island, because of the lack of jobs, let alone anything well paying. With protests from her parents, she packed her bags and headed west. What follows is a deeply personal accounting of her experience working in the oil sands as a woman. Being a woman, living at camps, in a workforce that is 95% male is an experience I cannot relate to, but I can absolutely emphasize with. So many of the stories Kate tells are the derogatory comments made to and around her while she’s just trying to do her job. The constant advances, propositions, and misogyny wearing down her mental health, and that’s not even to mention how crappy working a tool shed job in -30 weather can be. The one time Kate tries to talk to a supervisor about the misogyny, she gets shut down, hard. “We’re a team here”, and “What did you expect when you came to work here?” essentially telling Kate to put up and shut up, or leave. Kate spends the next two years enduring casual toxicity, threats, invasions of privacy, gendered violence, and sexual assault.
Kate often touches upon the juxtapositions of being surrounded by people, but also being isolated. The shadow population living out two lives. Their real life back home, often with spouses and children, and the camp life, where you never really know what each other gets up two on their weekends. Drugs, sex, and relationships are all a shadowy undercurrent amongst a population of people who are in a place to do a job. The men she’s surrounded by are blue collar, apparently devoid of empathy, compassion, or respect.
After a year, she tries to leave. She gets a museum job in Victoria, B.C, but doesn’t get enough hours, so picks up a part-time job as a maid. She goes on dates, but doesn’t know how to relate to ‘normal’ people. After a year of working in Victoria, she gets the bad news that her student loans are due, and she’s not earning enough money to pay them off in Victoria. Without any better options, she makes her way back to the oil sands.
Then comes the sexual assault. In one camp, she talks about how often her door would open, someone would poke their head in and see that she was with people, mutter “wrong room”, then leave, or how often someone tries to open her door during the night, rattling the handle to see if it’s locked or not. The boys of the group mention that never happened to them. When Kate attends a party that migrates from room to room, she gets drunk, realizes she forgot her drink a few rooms back, and when she goes back to retrieve it, the man she’s with closes the door behind them and advances on her. She depicts the moment like an out-of-body experience. The scene goes dark, she floats home, then the scene changes. Later in the book she says to her friend “It felt like I had a second to decide and an eternity to live with it” This scene reminds me of Bear Town, but unlike in that fiction, Kate doesn’t get any justice. In her afterword, Kate writes, “I was nothing in his life but a short release from the boredom and loneliness endemic in camp life, but he was a major trauma in mine.” As a man, the constant awfulness that Kate endured made my skin crawl. I can only imagine that any woman reading this will be reduced to a ball of seething rage and misery.
Ducks: Two Years in the Oil Sands touches on the environmental impact of the oil sands, but the focus of the book is Kate’s story. It’s not a tragedy, but it is an unhappy tale. Rife with melancholy and bitterness. Complex feelings of being exploited, while also being party to a larger evil. Kate feels alone and weird when she’s in ‘normal’ situations, friends come and go as jobs ebb and flow. I can’t relate to the experience of being a woman in a male dominated workplace, but I absolutely have empathy for this poor woman who just wants to do her job but is constantly leered at. Even worse when she invites friends into her workplace, and they catch men ducking under the tables trying to catch a glimpse up a skirt.
Kate never invites the comments, but she’s constantly subjected to them. Her mental health takes some brutal hits. Near the end of the book, Kate comments on that while the comments and misogyny has been constant, she recognizes that there have been hundreds of men who have just been in the background. On one hand, not all men have made comments, but they do have a role in being complicit when a guy makes a shitty comment and doing nothing.
I really enjoyed this graphic novel in the same way that I enjoyed Bear Town. I sit here, angry at men. I have a deep sadness for Kate, and the world that created the situation that made Kate feel like she had to endure that, and the world that let men feel like they can behave in these ways. The author’s afterword bring a lot of context to this deeply personal story. I would not hesitate to recommend Ducks: Two Years in the Oil Sands, but that recommendation comes with the caveat that this book can be deeply painful to anyone who has a history of sexual assault or gendered violence.
