review - nasty

“Nasty: My Family and Other Glamorous Varmints”
Simon Doonan
(Simon and Schuster)




Sometime in the last century, the craziness of one’s family ceased to be a swept-under-the-carpet affair and became a bragging point; as evidence, take any of David Sedaris’ wildly successful essay collections. British transplant (and Beautiful Person) Simon Doonan embarks into this familiar territory in “Nasty: My Family and Other Glamorous Varmints,” further exploring characters introduced in his previous books.

Doonan’s theme is that he doesn’t remember any of his pleasant memories; instead his memory banks are filled with “fifty years of jarring occurrences, freakish individuals, deranged obsessions, public embarrassments, kamikaze outfits, unsavory types, varmints, vermin” – in short, anything unpleasant or downright bizarre. Take Betty, his proud mother who believed her Irish blood was a fair opponent for any pain the world could offer (a trait passed on from her tough as nails father), or lobotomized schizophrenic Narg (“Gran” reversed by the enterprising six-year-old Simon), a woman apt to throw the contents of her bedroom down the stairs when confronted with an upsetting situation.

His friends fare no better in the quest for sunny recollections. A blind woman in Simon’s care is steered into a pole, cracking her skull. Homemade astringent is consumed by Doonan and a college friend in search of alcohol. “Biddie,” Doonan’s childhood friend, sometime roommate, and drag queen cabaret singer has a penchant for bringing home used pianos. Doonan himself suffers hernias, a car trunk filled with colostomy bags, and an unfortunate (and hilarious, in retrospect) incident involving a kilt-pant hybrid and a police officer, among other mishaps.

As cathartic for the reader as it (hopefully) was for the author, “Nasty” is as entertaining as it is unpleasant. Flamboyant prose and actual photographs from Doonan’s life paint a vivid picture of what it must have been like for Doonan, growing up young, gay, British, and with burgeoning fabulousness. Most of all, Doonan’s family’s dirty laundry (or floor pillows, as the case may be) helps make us all a little more grateful for the wackiness that exists in our own families, and all the wonderfully nasty memories that result.

review - evidence of love

"Evidence of Love"
Melissa McConnell
(Harvest)



In this day and age, it’s odd to read a book set jointly in New York City and Washington D.C. and not have the September 11 attacks cast a shroud, whether directly or indirectly, on the narrative. Perhaps that’s why it seems so jarring when a character in “Evidence of Love” travels to the World Trade Center – as though the book were published not in 2005, but in a slightly more innocent time.

The story, which takes place in a semi-fictional recent past (JFK Jr.’s plane still crashes, but the President is a construct like those on “The West Wing” or “24”), follows Catherine, publicist and speechwriter for the Vice President. Her job isn’t as glamorous as it sounds – her days are filled with tedious proofreading processes and annoying calls from heavy-drinking Russian publishing moguls – but she took the job to be with her fiancé Harry, an adviser to the president, a sacrifice well worth it. Until the day Harry disappears, leaving only a note.

Puzzled and distraught, Catherine is forced to go about her daily routine, wondering where the relationship went awry – until she’s notified of a tragedy that may have taken Harry, and all of the answers she wants, away from her permanently.

As she copes with Harry’s departure and the subsequent tragic event, she finds support from her fellow White House staff, many of whom who are also coping with grief, including the widowed Vice-President. Even though Harry is gone, she discovers he still has a profound impact on her day-to-day life. But what Catherine slowly learns is that Harry had been hiding secrets from her for a long time, secrets that may or may not be hers to discover.

“Evidence of Love” is a wonderfully human story, exploring grief in the way it’s often experienced – with a vague, numbing detachment instead of garment rending soap opera dramatics. As a result, the poetic narrative often feels like it is being viewed through curtains, filled with gauzy images of love, loss, and longing. It’s hard to imagine a distinct audience for this book – it’s not quite love story, not quite sob story, not quite mystery – but its intangible qualities are such that it’s equally hard to find a reason not to recommend it. Though the plot points behind the novel could have easily been made a political thriller, (and probably have been, somewhere) instead first-time author McConnell weaves something softer; and though less easy to define, it’s no less profound.

interesting fact.

I just discovered that the copy of Simon Doonan's "Nasty" that I was sent to review has not one, but TWO book jackets.

Maybe it thought it was bound for Alaska instead of Texas, and was told by its mom to bundle up.

review - sudden death

“Sudden Death”
David Rosenfelt
(Mysterious Press)

I really wanted to like “Sudden Death,” the newest novel by David Rosenfelt. The writer had two things going for him: good credentials (an Edgar Award nomination for his mystery “Open and Shut”) and the fact that although I am a girly girl who clutches her copy of “Bridget Jones” with reckless abandon, I love a good sports story. Sadly, “Sudden Death” failed to deliver that clinching touchdown.

Lawyer Andy Carpenter has handled a few high-profile cases in the past, but none that compare to this one: New York Giants star running back Kenny Schilling has just been accused of murdering Troy Preston (falsely identified on the book jacket as “Tony”), a player for the New York Jets. The evidence is pretty damning: Troy’s body was discovered in Kenny’s house after an O.J.-style police standoff. Even Andy’s not convinced Kenny is innocent, but he’s willing to try, especially after he discovers footballer Troy doubled as a drug dealer with mafia connections.

But tussling with the mafia isn’t exactly the path to a long and healthy life. As Andy and his team (girlfriend and private investigator Laurie, Hollywood screenwriter Adam, accountant Sam) uncover a string of more mysterious deaths connected to Kenny, one happens upon something that ends in another murder – a tragic event that changes the direction of the case entirely. The twist ending and final reveal is intriguing, but it ultimately suffers from poor foreshadowing and a complicated and confusing lead-in that diminishes the blow like a set of heavy football pads.

The subplot where Andy fears that Laurie is leaving him to return to her hometown would have been more touching if Andy were a bit less immature. Although his love for his dog Tara (something he shares with author Rosenfelt) is bound to endear him to a legion of readers, his yearning to become a place-kicker for the Giants is just as likely to be a bullet point under “No” in a Cosmo “Is your man a keeper?” survey. In a world of crime novels filled with hard-ass cops and lawyers, I’m sure man-boy Andy is supposed to be a breath of fun and fresh air, but to this chick who’s dated more than her share of less-than-grown up guys, he’s more annoying than a Dennis Miller color commentary.

If you like your mysteries in oversized font, with twists as exciting as a made-for-cable movie, and filled with pop culture references that stink of 2003, (the trial is “more fascinating and exciting than whether Britney and Justin will get back together”) then “Sudden Death” is right in your end zone. But readers hoping for a touchdown will be surprised when they end up tackled for a safety.

books should stay books.

I just received a movie tie-in package for “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants,” delighting the children’s librarian in me, but disgusting the part of me who hates crass consumerism. Sure, I liked the book and all, but who besides 13-year-old girls needs a full “movie scrapbook”? Maybe it’s because I’m not thirteen, or because of my intense hatred for most movie adaptations of books. (Prisoner of Azkaban, yes; Lemony Snicket, no.)

Maybe I’m alone, but I prefer books with their original covers, without added “photo inserts” of people who look nothing like the characters I imagined. I sulked for weeks when I saw that Ron Weasley wasn’t as pointy-faced as I pictured, and hey, Hermione is NOT THAT PRETTY.

Oh, marketing. I love when you send me free books, but I hate when I am made to feel like a mindless consumer who has nothing better to do than ogle movie tie-ins. You are the reason why kids read YuGiOh books instead of the Hardy Boys.

traveling with books

This past weekend, I had the luxury of traveling to lovely Dayton, Ohio, to witness my sister's college graduation. Dayton's only redeeming quality (other than housing my sister for four years) is that it is home to not one but THREE Panera Breads, and I got to eat a Portobello Panini for the first time in five months.

I am still sullen about the non-existence of Panera Breads in Austin.

Most people bring books when they travel. In fact, there are some people out there who ONLY read books when they travel. I'm fine with those people, even if they ARE the ones who keep John Grisham rich while I toil away in blog obscurity. But I am not one of those people. That is why I brought SIX books. One weekend, seven hours on various aircrafts, added time waiting in airports, family members who I wanted to have an excuse to ignore....yep. Six books seemed about right.

For my first flight, I read "When Germs Travel," about epidemics in the 20th century, from cholera to tuberculosis. So sue me, I'm slightly morbid. But it's FUN to read a book about all the things that could kill you when you're riding in a germ-filled tube. Besides, when you're reading a book on an airplane, you're protected from inane conversation with your seatmate. I always end up with the guy who smells like Drakkar Noir and Listerine and is spilling over the arm rest, so that I have to press up against the tiny double-paned window. (Unsanitary!) Your choice of book on a plane can say many things about you: from "I shop only at airport bookstores" (Grisham, Patterson) to "I am a potential terrorist" (The Anarchist's Cookbook).

I prefer to go somewhere in between, in the "I am smart, distant, and someone you would not want to have a conversation with" range. Hence, a book about germs. Other books can do this job nearly as well, but it helps to flaunt a title written by someone with "Doctor" in front of their name.

If you fear that book on Organic Chemistry will not keep you entertained for your whole flight to Hawaii, you CAN receive the same results with other books as well. It's all about attitude: sit at the gate with an open book, keep it in your hand as you walk down the aisle, and open it again as soon as you buckle your seatbelt, offering only a cursory grunt at your seatmate if they say hello before burying your nose in the book again.

Dark framed glasses also help this "I am a scholar, do not bother me" attitude.

I read "Evidence of Love" in the hotel when I wanted to ignore my mother, and "Slaughterhouse Five" on the lawn of the Wright-Patterson Airforce Museum. This seemed an appropriate choice, because Slaughterhouse Five begins with an observation about the open spaces of Dayton, Ohio, and there I was, in the open spaces of Dayton Ohio.

I read half of "He Who Fears the Wolf" on the plane home, and lost my copy of "The Loss of Leon Meed" on that same plane. (I blame the title.) I only wish that I had read a book during the two and a half hour graduation ceremony itself.

Four days, three and a half books? That's what I call traveling.

memoirs of a geisha - now, with digressions!

Listen to me, for I am about to impart some wise advice upon the masses: it is always a bad idea to start a new blog when you don't have time for the blog you have. I am not just a mysterious book diva, who sits in my papasan chair all day, eating Pringles and Dove chocolates while a mysterious and sexy book slave delivers me book after book. No, I have multiple Real Jobs, with an annoying sort of responsibility attached to them, that often prevent me from talking about books as much as I'd like. (i.e. the 50% of the day that I am not sleeping or talking about clothes. I brought home a present for my roommate yesterday, a shirt she'd admired that I picked up with my associate discount at Prominent Mall Retail Establishment, and as she tried it on, I made various flattering comments. Her reply: "is that how you talk to all the fatties that try on clothes at [retail establishment]?"

That said, I re-read Memoirs of a Geisha this week. (That "currently reading" area on the right? TOTALLY A LIE. That is what I would be reading if I were responsible, but I am not. Ha!)

God. Do you ever just forget how good a book is? Or, actually, do you remember that a book was good, despite forgetting all the major plot points AND the main character's name in the year and a half or so since reading it?

(Forgetting character's names is a point of mine, unless of course the character's name is in the title or is Holden Caulfield. This is why I am fond of the phrase "the protagonist," as it is not only perfectly substitutible, it is also BIG and makes me sound smart when I use it.")

Anyway, the overwhelming feeling I had coming away from the book both times was I WANT TO BE A GEISHA!, despite the elaborate hairstyles and impossible shoes (or perhaps BECAUSE of the elaborate hairstyles and impossible shoes). Most of all, it made me wish I lived in a day and age when I could wear kimono and get away with it. Beautiful embroidery is a weakness of mine, along with impossibly high and complicated shoes.

The bad news is that I re-read Memoirs of a Geisha while I should have been reading from the stack of books-coming-out-in-May that I have in my possession. In May, I seem to be heavy on the crime dramas and thrillers and mysteries. I'm not sure what that is about, since I am much more the type to pick up a Red Dress Ink title. Then summarily mock it. (Last year at Printer's Row Book Fair in Chicago, I learned that RDI was one of the few publishing houses that still accepted unsolicited manuscripts, and had to keep from snorting. It totally shows - although I hear that they do not do that anymore.)

Although I generally hate books-into-movies, especially books-I-love-into-movies, I am quite excited for the Memoirs of a Geisha film. This is because when I first saw "House of Flying Daggers" in the theatre, with its beautiful dance sequence, I remembered that a Geisha film was in production and thought to myself that Zhang Ziyi would be a fabulous protagonist (because, of course, I did not remember her name) . Lo and behold, I went to IMDB and discovered that she WAS, in fact, playing Sayuri, in spite of the fact that she is Chinese, not Japanese. People on the message boards seemed to be in a bit of a huff about that, but I am generally against the kind of stupidity that goes on in message-board land. It ranks between the stupidity of people who leave babies and pets in cars in Texas in the summer and people who vote for the next American Idol. Personally, I will reserve judgment until I see the film, or until I see the previews, when I will end up being disgusted with the fact that what I see on screen does not match my vision of what I imagined on the page.

(This is the reason that I am not going to see The Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy. Instead, I will sit at home with my consolidated five volume in one Hitchhikers, and pout.)

Actually, I will probably end up seeing Memoirs of a Geisha regardless, just because I want to see the kimonos.