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.

critical masses: why i can't write a bad review

I recently exchanged a set of e-mails with my poetry editor friend about writing book reviews, specifically about panning books. In the process, I realized that I honestly have NO IDEA how to write a real review, because I refused to take ANY journalism classes on the path to my writing degree.

(Here's a secret: despite my "managing editor" label, I am not a trained journalist. I am a total sham. Which means blogs are the devil. They allow unschooled people to RUN THE WORLD with their half-assed opinions. Bwa ha ha. )

The thing is, I never really HATE books. I've been this way since I was a kid. I either finish them or I don't finish them. If I finish them, I can always find some redemption in them: I liked "The Devil Wears Prada" even as everyone else panned it, although I didn't have kind things to say about Bergdorf Blondes - actually, though, if I were going to write a bad review, it would probably involve an over-hyped book that needs to be knocked down a peg, rather than a random book by a first time author - not because I'd feel bad for the first-timer, but because if they don't get publicity, they'll be on the remaindered heaps in two months anyway, so why bother?

(Perhaps an exception to this rule: I just got a copy of "The Loss of Leon Meed", coming out in July. The publicity machine billed it as similar to "The Confessions of Max Tivoli" and "The Time Traveler's Wife" (the latter being one of my favorite books EVER) so I was looking forward to reading it, but after the first three chapters found myself slogging through overwritten, self-important dreck. (Also, the author was inventing slang for his young hipster characters. I HATE when authors invent slang.) If I finish it, maybe it will get a bad review - or maybe I'll end up finding it has some weird redeeming quality anyway, and raise it a notch.)

Sometimes I do end up a little shocked when a book I really like is pounded by critics. Okay, not critics, who I often find myself agreeing with by default (I am woefully swayed by a good press release). Actually, most of the time I end up at odds with people who post reviews on Amazon.com. I AM OUT OF TOUCH WITH THE AMERICAN PUBLIC! This may or may not be related to the fact that I do not understand allure of shows like "American Idol" and "Baby Bob."

Well, I don't care what they say. I still like "Chloe Does Yale."

The fact that the reviews I write are limited to 4-500 words of general criticism probably helps soften the blow a bit, too- as much as I'd love to go off on a diatribe about why Nicholas Spark's sex scenes are the most painful, unsexy paragraphs committed to paper in the history of mankind, (I'd quote him here, but I vomited on the pages. Then burned them.) I don't have room for it after the 50 word intro, 200 word summary, and basic 'what makes this book (un)attractive' review.

And even after all that, I'm just not bitchy enough. I swear, I've tried. I've emulated Rachel McAdams in Mean Girls and Lindsay Lohan in everyday life and cheered the cat as she attacked the live insects that I brought inside just for her to catch and eat. But my inability to give Jay Sherman style criticism can be chalked up to my complete lack of a bitch gene. (My mother was a Girl Scout for over 20 years. You try being bitchy when you were raised by a woman who still bakes cakes from scratch, not just for your birthday, but for your FRIENDS BIRTHDAYS as well.) Case in point for utter lack of bitchiness: I still talk with all of my ex-boyfriends (even those *I* dumped) on a regular basis. Well, except for my stoner ex, who believed foreplay could be replaced with a good dose of lube, but that doesn't really need any further explanation, does it?

So, do I have a method, or do I rely on monkeys and dartboards? I guess the method I use is "write what you got out of the book" - and since I can find, if not "good", at least "enjoyment" out of most of the things I read, I don't really write negative reviews.

Perhaps one day I'll be forced to read a book that sucks and be tested, but for now, I have the luxury of only reading and posting reviews the ones that don't. Besides, I read books, and therefore write reviews, from librarian's perspective (18 months of reading School Library Journal will do that to you) - I might not love it, but who out there will? Most of the time, there's someone out there who will find a book essential, even if it IS written by Nicholas Sparks.

(That person: my 90 year old grandmother.)

review - the untelling

“The Untelling”
Tayari Jones
(Warner Books)

Ariadne Jackson was saddled with her name by a mother who never wanted her children to be underestimated. “That is not what Dr. King died for,” was a mantra that Aria grew up hearing. At 25, Aria feels that she still hasn’t grown into her name. She lives with her best friend Rochelle in an Atlanta neighborhood filled with crackheads and thieves, including her neighbor Cynthia, a drug addict with whom Aria has struck up a tentative friendship. Even her precarious home is a choice she’s satisfied with, as the slowly gentrifying area offers Aria a certain kind of comfort: “I like the idea of imminent transformation and appreciation.” Her life seems fulfilling on the surface: a college degree, a supportive boyfriend, and a job teaching literacy to GED candidates.

But Aria’s life was marred when, as a child, her father and baby sister were killed in a car accident as the family drove to Aria’s dance recital; Aria’s father slowly died as she sat in the backseat. Afterwards, she was left behind with a mother who baked BB’s into cornbread out of spite, and a sister who was so desperate to escape that, at eighteen, she married a man who was once her father’s best friend. The guilt of watching her father die is a memory she hasn’t been able to recover from, something that has estranged her from her family for years. When Aria believes she is pregnant, it gives her the opportunity to reconnect with her mother and sister, and when she discovers her symptoms are not those of pregnancy, the new connection results in a surprising revelation that allows years of grief and guilt to surface, giving Aria new insight into her mother’s emotional plight – and her own.

Jones is undeniably talented, infusing Aria with a voice as strong as a song. The plot drives through the powerful emotional territory of cultural and sexual heritage, gripping the reader with beautiful language and imagery and pulling them through a tale that is carefully crafted and deliberate. Every page of “The Untelling” seems to insist that it is not just a book, it is literature, with hidden meaning throughout. But at the same time, this adherence to metaphor causes the book’s only flaw. All of the people in Aria’s world have been created with what on the surface appear to be meticulous human complexities, yet despite this many seem to exist only as mirrors for Aria’s current state – student Keisha’s swelling belly, Rochelle’s prematurely grey hair, Cynthia’s single-minded quest to find her lost crack rock - and few characters beyond Aria get to show their apparent depth. In a first person narrative, this technique emphasizes Aria’s own limited viewpoint, the detachment she’s felt from the world around her, yet it also makes the novel almost too one-sided, skimming the surface of what might have been.

books to be reviewed.

For my own reference: Books I've read recently that I've yet to review

- Killing Yourself to Live, Chuck Klosterman (July publication)
- We're in Trouble, Christopher Coake
- The DaVinci Code, Dan Brown

finding (and keeping) old friends.

Sometimes, despite the allure (and pressure) of having a stack of brand new books to read, I find myself drifting back to the favorites on my shelf. This week, after finishing "We're in Trouble" (fantastic book, a something-mixed-with-King vibe, five super pointy stilettos, review coming - er, eventually) it happened. I tried to get into the new book stack - there are so many I'm interested in, and even a few that I want to skim one last time before my final review. But did I do that? No. Maybe it seemed too much like work, or maybe I'd read so many brand new books in a row, I'd grown tired of plowing through page after page, not knowing how they were going to end.

So instead of new books, I'm reading "Lucky" by Alice Sebold. Oh, and "Emily of New Moon." And maybe I read a little Harry Potter in there, too, just because my boyfriend's current soccer fever brought to mind the Quidditch Cup in Goblet of Fire.

I am a hapless book re-reader, which confuses some people. Mostly older people, who grew up without the joys of VCRs and TiVo and The Real World airing twenty-seven times a week on MTV. I am not only OF the next generation, I embrace it as a hapless movie and television re-watcher: I watched Ten Things I Hate About You nearly every weekend during my sophomore year of college (Heath Ledger is universally known among sorority girls as the perfect hangover remedy), and last year during the peak of my O.C addiction, I was known to tape an episode and watch it EVERY DAY for the next week, until the new episode aired.

Yes, that's six times in one week. No, there isn't a medication for that.

My affection for certain books knows no bounds. That's why I read all 1100-plus pages of "The Stand" every summer, why my copies of the "Anne of Green Gables" series are held together by enough packing tape to mail an elephant, and why my mother has, on occasion, been known to yell at me for having overfilled bookshelves which teeter to the point of endangerment. My bookshelves are something that may need to be baby-gated, if and when the time comes, just to prevent my mother from having an embolism.

But overfilled bookshelves are the bane of the re-reader, who can't get rid of anything because there's a chance that they may want to read it AGAIN! Most of my favorite books have been read, cover to cover, no fewer than a half a dozen times. It helps that some of my favorite books have been my favorite books for more than ten years running (Hello, The Stand! Order of the Phoenix, maybe you'll be there in a few more years) I know there are libraries with the full range of the Betsy-Tacy series, just for when I'm in the mood for the time Betsy visits Milwaukee and goes through her German stage, but reading the very book that I've owned since I was eight is so much more comforting.

Old books have more memories than library books. Even the tomes have stains and smudges from various confections eaten while read - those are your marks, and they're about more than having a sticky book. (Gross when found in library copy, nostalgic when you remember reading the book while dying Easter eggs.) On my shelf are the aforementioned books held together with tape, because that's the only way they survived a year of abuse being shoved beneath my Geometry book in my backpack; there are books with tiny little bite marks at the tops of the pages, from the attention starved parakeet we used to own. I even know which books I received in the eighties - I know this because I, for a reason now unknown, marked each book with an "80" on the spine. (Never doubt the mind of a nine year old with a sharpie and a full collection of Baby Sitters Club books.)

Those Baby Sitter's Club books currently sit, unread for over ten years, in a box in my parent's basement. So maybe I'm not just a re-reader. I'm a pack rat.

Maybe I've pushed past my week of nostalgia. Right now, I have in my hands a copy of "The DaVinci Code" with a bookmark at chapter 30, because I was lectured that really, I can't have a book blog without reading THE BOOK OF THE MOMENT, (but seriously, now, hasn't it almost overlived its moment?) no matter how many Dateline specials on the topic that I may watch.

But maybe, just maybe, I still have a battle with a dragon left to read.

review - the guinness book of me

“The Guinness Book of Me”
By Steven Church
(Simon and Schuster)

Most children go through a phase where they are completely enamored by the Guinness Book of World Records; Steven Church never grew out of it. In “The Guinness Book of Me,” Church hauls out his 1980 and 1982 copies, recording the records he idolized as a boy and using them to organize episodes from his life.

The episodes, which cover Church’s life from boyhood to present day, follow no chronological path: a chapter on boys’ fascination with destruction (“Piano Smashing”) leads into a rumination on record holders’ private lives, then to his own severe illness as a small boy (“Commonest Diseases”). Church often imagines himself joining the ranks of his Guinness idols - “World’s Largest Ten Year Old, Biggest Hands for a Child Under Twelve, World Record Holder for Consuming Breakfast Cereal” - as a way of coping with what he considered his own freakish tendencies; his penchant for injuries and discomfort over his massive size are two themes that run throughout. The memory of his brother, Matt, a daredevil who died at the age of 18, haunts most of the chapters, adding a dash of melancholy to an often humorous story. His own reflections on fatherhood bring the story full circle.

The direct, simple prose style used in the book (which Church dubs “creative non-fiction”) flows over the page without distracting accoutrements; this could almost be the tale of any boy growing up in the 70s or 80s. The rites of passage Church experiences with his father and brother (his first knife, hunting, building an x-wing fighter) seem to be parts of an almost universal middle-America boyhood experience – or so my male friends report. Unfortunately, it is precisely this quality that also limits the story; it may be well written, but there's nothing so outstanding or compelling about Church's life that it demands memoir-iztion in book form. The creative use of Guinness book entries is intriguing, but certain chapters have a more tenuous connection than others to their preceding “record,” making the records more of a curiosity of the narrative, rather than a necessary component.

The gimmick of using Guinness entries may at first make this book stand out from other similar memoirs of childhood, but it isn’t enough to pull it from the realm of average.

a foray into poetry

I am far from what you would call a connoisseur of poetry. On the off chance that I do read a poem, it’s far more likely to be Silverstein than Sexton. But when three slim volumes of poetry happened upon my desk, I had to pick them up. After all, April is National Poetry Month. To bypass poetry in April would be a crime along the lines of not carving a pumpkin for Halloween or not picking up Stephen King’s “The Stand” for a lengthy re-read when summer cold season hit.

I’m not alone in my literary preferences. The reading material of the American population probably best resembles an upside-down pyramid; trickling down from the New York Times bestseller list through mass market paperbacks; passing through Oprah’s book club and lists of ‘the 100 greatest books of all time.’ Those of us who make it to the narrow tip might even pick up a collection of short stories – another beleaguered genre – from time to time. We weren’t always like this. We were raised on the rhymes of Mother Goose, and I dare you to find me a fifteen year old who doesn’t have a black covered notebook featuring overly flowery stanzas about the girl who sits across the aisle in Geometry. But as a whole, once we’ve passed our high school and college literature requirements, we seem to be as likely to pull a book of poetry off the library shelf as we would, say, the script of a play.

Pulitzer-winning poet Charles Simic draws attention to this phenomenon in his foreword to “The Shout,” a collection of poems by British writer Simon Armitage. “I’ve never understood the poor repute poetry has among general readers,” he writes. “They take it for granted that contemporary poetry is not only hopelessly obscure, but completely irrelevant to their lives, in addition to being just plain boring.”

Ouch. The truth stings.

Simic’s words taunted like a schoolyard dare. In poetry, could I find the relevance and poignancy that were missing in my dog-eared copies of “The Devil Wears Prada” and “Chloe Does Yale”? (Okay, maybe not much of a stretch.) More than that, could I, an average American – well, an average American who also happened to have an English degree – learn to appreciate poetry that didn’t include a line about a girl from Nantucket? This became my National Poetry Month challenge.

I asked a friend (who happens be an editor for a national poetry magazine, and thus the only person I know who reads poetry on a regular basis) for his opinion on the matter. After a short aside about entreating Joss Whedon to expound on the use of poetry in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, he got into the meat of things:

“Poetry today to people our age means nothing. I bet if I surveyed all the "Creative Types" I hang around with, not one of them would be able to name two contemporary poets. The fact that people in this country can be considered "literary" and have that knowledge based entirely in fiction and essays seems to me quite lacking. The teaching of poetry can be blamed first, and often is. Most high school students that I've spoken to do not know that Shakespeare was a poet, that he wrote hundreds of sonnets, basically shaped the contemporary form (14 lines, iambs, ends with a couplet), or that his dramatic work is written in a form to express the sounds poetically. Most adults tell me they don't read poetry because it's "too over their head." Avoidance of something intellectually intimidating I totally understand, but not getting Heisenberg's principle and not getting a Robert Lowell poem are a little different. So I think the problem with poetry today is somehow tied to the meaning. People believe there must be a meaning to it. What's funny is nobody thinks that about fiction. They don't struggle with a novel's meaning, they just read "The DaVinci Code" or whatever else, digest it, and move on; but for some reason, there's this weird mysticism surrounding poetry, like you have to be in on certain vibes to comprehend it. It's so bogus. There's nothing more to meaning in poetry than anything else.”

He moved on to reference She’s All That, but since my hatred of Freddie Prinze Jr. began around the time he coupled up with Sarah Michelle Gellar (lousy jerk, stealing my then-TV girlfriend), I skipped it. Sorry, Scott. I hope I didn’t miss anything good.

These sage words in hand, I approached my three books with a newfound lightness of soul, ready to read and experience poetry for whatever emotions they elicited in me, instead of being worried that my unschooled mind would end up missing something deeper in these books.

Simic’s poetry in “My Noiseless Entourage” seemed intimidating at first. He had won a Pulitzer! That gave me reason enough to be fearful - if I saw mush where everyone else saw brilliance, did that mean I was hopelessly cursed to never appreciate a poem again? Truthfully, I can't say I recognized the x-factor that makes Simic's poetry worthy of Pulitzer praise. However, I did enjoy the book, which was lyrical, haunting, evoking feelings of alienation in a gothic urban world. The book was excellent at creating an overall feeling of curiosity among gloom; no one particular poem rang out, making the individual poems like chapters in a larger, interconnected work of fiction. The book reminded me of the mood created in many British independent films (think Billy Elliott, not Love Actually), although Simic is neither British nor a filmmaker.

Simon Armitage, on the other hand, IS British. His poems in “The Shout” are witty, with individual offerings that stand out: “Kid,” told from the point of view of Robin (of Batman and Robin), who has grown tired of his sidekick role. “Holy-robin-redbreast-nest-egg-shocker!/Holy roll-me-over-in-the-clover,/I’m not playing ball boy any longer” the liberated hero cries. Armitage isn’t all about the pop culture, but there’s something decidedly hip about his offerings, many of which share the same coy boyishness. His cadence is such that I found myself tripping through the book at a fast clip, coming through exhilarated at the end.

I’m disappointed to say that Lavinia Greenlaw’s “Minsk” did not elicit the same reaction. Greenlaw writes the way I imagined poetry to be before my Poetry Month revelation: short, made up with obscure imagery that seemed to demand a scholarly eye. I found it hard not to be bogged down in this book, trying to dissect meaning once again. I can’t say that Greenlaw is a bad poet – for all I know, she is brilliant, amazing, genius, lauded among her peers. But for the casual reader, taking a browse through poetry almost on a whim, I was left struggling, adrift in phrases like “fair game/for the double-act coming off night patrol/open-armed, under-performed,” baffled by poetry once again.

Maybe it’s hard for an avid fiction reader to experience a sudden personal renaissance based on perusing three volumes of poetry. But after my journey, I’m feeling slightly less intimidated; maybe a little more likely to go to the 811’s in my library, pick up a book, and, with no expectations, begin to read.

The Books:

“My Noiseless Entourage”
Charles Simic
(Harcourt)

“The Shout”
Simon Armitage
(Harcourt)

“Minsk”
Lavinia Greenlaw
(Harcourt)

review - true believer

“True Believer”
By Nicholas Sparks
(Warner Books)



Nicholas Sparks’ allure is simple. He, like fellow bestseller Mitch Albom, is a part of the growing cadre of writers whose clean style, feel-good message and mildly religious undertones seem catered to America’s Red-State population. His newest book, “True Believer,” doesn’t break that mold.

Investigative journalist and dyed the wool New Yorker Jeremy Marsh is riding a high that culminated in his appearance on Primetime Live when a letter lures him to a small town in North Carolina, asking him to do a piece on their cemetery ghosts. When he arrives, he meets a slew of requisite quirky townspeople, including Doris, the letter writer who has ‘psychic powers’, and Lexie, the violet-eyed librarian with a host of outsider issues. Jeremy’s innate skepticism fills him with doubt, both about Doris and the ghostly lights in the town cemetery, but he can’t help but be drawn to Lexie as she assists him in researching the mystery. It’s no surprise that the two are eventually paired off, and with the help of Doris (who also happens to be Lexie’s grandmother) they both find their happy ending.

There’s nothing groundbreaking about any of Sparks books, and “True Believer” is no different. Most of his characters are one-dimensional representations of small townspeople (the flirtatious waitress, the jealous sheriff who jails outsiders, the over-welcoming and possibly duplicitous mayor, the silent, creepy, innkeeper with a massive taxidermy collection); only Doris manages to escape that distinction. Even Lexie and Jeremy, who are clearly set up as “meant to be” from the outset, don’t seem to have any extra fire – maybe that’s what makes their sole love scene (a pivotal point to set up the saccharine and predictable ending) so painful to read.

The whirlwind romance not only lacks fire, it doesn’t even follow a logical progression. Sure, it has the requisite declarations of love, blowout fight/misunderstanding and joyful reunion necessary in any romance novel, but the character’s motivations, other than their newfound belief in the power of True Love, are almost non-existent. I almost didn't let it bother me, until I realized I had to write a review - and that means most people who read it won't even dwell on the gaping holes at all. Even worse, first half of the book, when the cemetery mystery overpowered the romance factor, actually makes for interesting and compelling reading – making the drawn out revelation even more anti-climactic.

But uninspired writing and a groan inducing ending aren’t going to stop people from flocking to this book. It didn’t even stop me from devouring it in one day, and kind of enjoying it in the process. Sparks' novels are the comfort food of literature. It's kind of like when you REALLY REALLY crave Kraft Mac and Cheese - you wolf it down, knowing full well that you are just eating orange and noodles, but BY GOD, for just a second, it tastes pretty good.

am i getting too old for this?

Yesterday, armed with two $5 gift cards and fifteen minutes to kill before my shift at retail paradise began, I headed into B. Dalton and went straight to the Young Adult section.

(My relationship with publishing company publicists does not extend to YA/Childrens books, because my almost-defunct magazine is not directed to children or young adults. Thus, I am faced with the prospect of PAYING for these books if I want to read them in a timely fashion.)

Actually, I headed NEARLY straight to the young adult section, stopping only to ogle Ryan Gosling on the cover of The Notebook. I hate when I am lured by pretty boys on crappy books.

When I got there, I was torn between getting the newest Gossip Girl (til May! It wasn't supposed to be out 'til May!) and the newest A-List. I picked the A-List because it was longer (more bang for your buck) and because the Gossip Girl series annoys me half to death, even more so since I heard Lindsay Lohan was cast as Blair in the adaptation. (Issues with that shall be saved for another day.) YET I STILL READ THEM. Why can't Cecily Von Ziegesar do something completely off-putting, something on par with this season's The O.C. so that I will stop reading entirely? I fear the answer is never.

Book in hand, I pranced happily to the register, knowing full well I'd be back for Gossip Girl another day. I shouldn't have a problem with this unbounded affection for trashy teen novels. I really, really shouldn't. But the thing is - I'm almost 25.

MY QUARTERLIFE CRISIS INVOLVES TEEN BOOKS.

I know I'm not the only one who suffers this syndrome, which I would dub with a creative name if I could come up with one. I am bad at creative names, which is why it took me seven weeks to come up with a title for this blog. But I digress. I'm not the only one - I have a friend who religiously buys each new Princess Diaries offering, and then HIDES THEM IN HER UNDERWEAR DRAWER. Like they're a secret porn stash hidden from a prying lover. Actually, her porn is out in the open - it's only her teen novels she hides.

I have less guilt, because I'm armed with my full set of excuses. "I'm a children's librarian! Okay, I'm not QUITE a children's librarian, but I will be soon! I have to keep up with the trends! I read True Believer because I knew it was going to be a bestseller and people would ask me about it, dammit! "

(Another Bad Excuse. Case in point: I still have not read The DaVinci Code, although I have watched two related Dateline specials)

The first step is admitting you have a problem.

review - privilege

"Privilege: Harvard and the Education of the Ruling Class"
By Ross Gregory Douthat
(Hyperion)



Not many people get to experience a midnight skinny-dip while cavorting with William F. Buckley on his yacht, but it’s much more likely to happen if you’re an Ivy Leaguer. That’s the impression that recent Harvard grad Ross Douthat gives in his first book.

Douthat’s anecdotes about his four years range from those about ‘typical’ college life (binge drinking, all-nighters, the rush to join fraternity-esque “social clubs,” and fumbling sexual exploits) to the outrageous (skinny dipping with Buckley, a student embezzler). But “Privilege” is no straight memoir, its goal to expose the hypocrisy of an institution whose foremost intent isn’t about providing the world’s best academics, as the glossy pamphlets mailed out to excelling high school students would lead one to believe. From grade inflation to so-called ‘diversity’ on Ivy campuses to the temporary allure of student liberalism to the “real business of Harvard…the pursuit of success”, the studious veneer of America’s most venerated institutions is stripped away to reveal the bare bones of the meritocracy underneath.

The narrative shifts from personal tale to social commentary and back again are adeptly handled, leaving the reader with an engaging and in depth picture of Ivy life as it is lived and offering reasons behind why it exists in its current incarnation. “Privilege” is not the memoir you’d expect to encounter from the average jaded Gen X/Y writer, who is more apt to chronicle their quarter-life with essays covering traveling the country or the hazards of moving back in with parents. For Harvardians and their Ivy-covered companions, there is no time for a year spent wandering the twists and turns of Route 66 with only a stray dog and beat up Volvo – after all, to do such a thing would mean time lost from the competitive ladder-climb that is their lives.

Even as Douthat claims to “cast a cold eye upon my generation of elites,” it is difficult to believe that someone who has so obviously benefited from his station in life can be a hard line cynic on all such matters. For every paragraph of scathing ‘expose’, there are two of fond memories. But for all of the book’s rhapsodic undertones, this intriguing peek into a world denied to all but a select few often leaves the rest of us glad that we’ve been left watching from the outside.

review - a portrait of yo mama as a young man

“A Portrait of Yo Mama as a Young Man”
By Andrew Barlow and Kent Roberts
(Three Rivers Press)



Remember those “yo mama” jokes that peaked in popularity in the early 1990s? Now, remember dreading the inevitable college course that had as required reading the James Joyce classic “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man”? Humor scribes Andrew Barlow and Kent Roberts apparently remember both all too well, and have consequently teamed to produce this book, which claims to “demonstrate…in unprecedented detail” the fact that “yo mama sucks.”

Taking the form of an intense ethnological study crossed with comprehensive trash bin digging, “A Portrait of Yo Mama as a Young Man” offers Yo Mama specific chapters such as Yo Mama’s Résumé, E-mails Yo Mama Wrote, even the YMAT (Yo Mama Assessment Test). It also offers various pictures, diagrams, even a cut-out “craft.” Mostly, though, the book’s foundation rests on new series of one liners – after all, isn’t that what a yo mama joke is all about? But by the forty fifth “field note” (as they’re dubbed here) the theme starts to feel a little tiresome. For every winning gem like “Yo daddy won yo mama when they couldn’t find the statue to give out for Best Adapted Screenplay,” there’s a brow-furrowing “Yo mama smiled warmly and said ‘God, I love this city,’ immediately after finding out that her best friend died in a bizarre accident.”

It’s a fitting book for a generation schooled in the self-aware ironic humor of “The Daily Show” and satiric weekly The Onion (which, not coincidentally, Roberts contributes to). It’s certainly aimed at intellectuals, those who are culturally aware enough to catch the most obscure in jokes, but in the same sense, its random invented references may leave readers feeling like they missed the punchline. (Why is “Darryl Chickatel” so amusing?) The simple theme becomes old quickly – by the time you reach the end, it’s painfully obvious that the authors are trying really, really hard to be funny, sometimes overshooting the mark entirely.

Still, considering the limited source material the authors had to work with, this 192 page ode to Yo Mama is an impressive feat. “Yo Mama” has many laugh out loud moments, making it worth a healthy browse, but this is a book best kept on the back of the toilet seat for short perusal, not one to be consumed in one sitting.

Kind of like Yo Mama, who’s so fat that it would take a dozen truckers 72 hours to consume her, and they’d still need doggy bags for the leftovers.

review - what comes after crazy

“What Comes After Crazy”
By Sandi Kahn Shelton
(Crown)



Mother of two Maz Lombard isn’t quite single, but she might as well be, what with her husband Lenny disappearing to Santa Fe after his affair with the community day care worker. Unfortunately, dating is more complicated than it once was. Not only does her fortune telling mother, Madame Lucille, call in the middle of her date with Dan, a new doctor in town, to offer the sage advice of “Darlin’ – SLEEP WITH HIM! You need it!”, her elder daughter, Hope, sternly informs Maz’s new love interest that her father is coming back.

After this debacle, Maz decides her life is far too crazy to let anyone in – and she thinks she’s proven right when Lenny unexpectedly returns to town, followed shortly thereafter by the impulsive Madame Lucille and HER newest husband. Of course, ‘anyone’ doesn’t include the 28-year-old boyfriend of the marriage-ruining day care worker – a romantic move which Maz’s best friend Hannah heartily disapproves of. While Maz tries to shake free of her mother’s psychological hold on her past and present, ten-year-old Hope (suddenly a burgeoning fortune teller herself), is drawn in by Madame Lucille; and when Lenny becomes involved and decides to take charge, the already strained relationship between Hope and Maz seems to fall apart. Surprisingly, that’s what makes the rest of Maz’s crazy life finally come together.

“What Comes After Crazy” may resemble chick lit with its ‘single’ woman premise and its slick cover, but inside the pages is a novel that evokes “She’s Come Undone” over Bridget Jones. While it occasionally falters, with a few exasperatingly one-note characters and a plot twist or two that even a questionable fortune teller such as Madame Lucille could foresee, the story remains engaging, if a bit surreal. Despite the unusual and sometimes predictable cast of characters peppering her life, Maz herself is complicated and layered protagonist, and Shelton’s insight into the tenuous relationship between preteen Hope and her mother rings particularly true.

“What Comes After Crazy” may delve a bit deeper than your usual poolside read, but is just as easy to pick up and has as many laughs as a breezy summer novel. It’s the perfect book to pick up for spring break - and then lend to your mother when you’re done.

review - chloe does yale

“Chloe Does Yale”
By Natalie Krinsky
(Hyperion)



It’s hard to tell where fiction ends and fact begins in this new novel by former Yale University sex columnist Natalie Krinsky. The 22-year-old recent graduate clearly drew heavily from her own experiences when creating Chloe Carrington, the titular protagonist who – guess what? – happens to be a sex columnist for the Yale Daily News.

“Sex and the (Elm) City” writer Chloe may be a college-age Carrie Bradshaw, but that doesn’t mean she’s the teen equivalent of the Sex and the City gals. Her infamy gets in the way of a meaningful relationship, and she hasn’t even had a random hookup since the beginning of the year. Despite her very public persona, privately Chloe is just as nervous as the rest of her sexually clueless peers – though her sparkling wit makes up for her insecurity, whether she’s tackling a column about oral sex, taking in an all-nude party or shopping for her first vibrator. “It’s ten inches long and covered in purple glitter. I will never be able to take my vibrator experience seriously if it looks like it belongs to Rock Star Barbie.”

The promiscuous premise belies the fact that this is a book about college life at its heart. From descriptive nicknames to fake IDs to tailgate parties, Chloe takes the reader on a hilarious journey through a year at a school that, despite its ivied credentials, could be nearly any university in America. Although the romantic subplot between Chloe and a mysterious e-mail admirer falls flat, as does the “happy = happily settled” ending, the book rides the wave of its raunchy yet realistic anecdotes with great success. Krinsky’s writing sparkles, and her spot-on descriptions of the college experience are bound to elicit laughs and groans of recognition from current and former collegians alike.

The bright pink cover denotes “Chloe Does Yale” as decidedly femme-friendly, but boyfriends of readers around the nation will be tempted, and for good reason. Witty and fun, “Chloe Does Yale” is the perfect book for anyone, male or female, who fumbled through a college relationship. And for those still in college, fiction or not, it may be an essential manual to guide you through your four years.

this is the story...of one girl....picked to write about books.

This is not my life story. This is just an approximation.

So, maybe a year or so ago, I was promoted to managing staff of a not-so-hip web magazine. (To remain unnamed, and thus undistinguished from all the other not-so-hip web magazines out there.) At first we were on a roll - big names, decent content, even a fucking ILLUSTRATOR.

Then...

Well, then, everyone realized that they weren't going to get paid any time soon, and abandoned ship rather rattily.

I hung around.

Now, said web magazine is on a prolonged hiatus (our only web designer has initiated a redesign best described as ".gif barf") and I have a stack of books from publishers. FREE books. My one unpaid, web magazine perk, delivered to my door because I promised publicists from companies stretching from Harper Collins to Warner Books that we were a growing publication (we were!) with a readership of 10,000 global readers a month (not a lie!) . Now? We're a blank page with a "coming soon!" banner.

And I'm left with a stack of journalistically approved but completely unpublished book reviews.

Things are gonna change.

Anyone who doesn't like it is going to get brained by my shoes.

review - the sex lives of cannibals

“The Sex Lives of Cannibals”
By J. Maarten Troost
(Broadway)

Stop. Quit your day job (or in the case of Maarten Troost, your temp job). Follow your girlfriend as she takes a job on an island in the Equatorial Pacific, where planes held together by duct tape can’t land until pigs are cleared off the runway and the ocean is nothing but one giant toilet for the natives. Troost’s “The Sex Lives of Cannibals” allows everyone who has ever dreamed of running off to a tropical island to live vicariously through him, as he and his girlfriend venture from the save haven of the United States to the island of Kiribati (pronounced Kir-ee-bas).

In his first novel, Troost perfectly captures the ennui of someone who has spent far too much time being educated, without a clue as to what they want to do afterwards. “I chose not to pursue employment in the field for which I had spent many years acquiring knowledge because…because, well, I didn’t really have a good reason” he states early on. So when the opportunity to travel to the other side of the world presents itself, Troost jumps at the chance…and defiantly packs his jeans and a sweater for good measure.

In vivid prose, Troost relates the story of his two years on the atoll as an I-Matang (white person) among I-Kiribati, from the initial culture shock to his slow adaptation to island life: toxic fish, sea sickness, diapers in his backyard and the questionable “cuisine.” (Although lobster is avoided, the mangy island dogs, he discovers, are regarded as particularly “kang-kang” (tasty).) As Troost becomes more entrenched in his life as an islander, he also expounds on the other I-Matang he encounters: the poet laureate of Kiribati, a young British man with questionable literary skills and all the charm of Oasis frontman Liam Gallagher; an ex-hippie surfer who has spent 20 years in the “paradise”; and the dignitaries who insist on wearing (laugh) pants in the stifling heat. His chapters bounce effortlessly from serious topics such as the history of the native peoples, and the effects that American influence has had on the atolls to side-splitting commentary on native scatological superstitions.

Poop, it seems, plays a central role in island life.

Part memoir, part political commentary, part anthropological study on the inhabitants of the equatorial Pacific, and all hilarious, “The Sex Lives of Cannibals” is the perfect summer read for the “what do I do next?” post-college crowd. The island of Tarawa, “a littered, stinking sandbar in the middle of nowhere” may be a far-from-idyllic setting; a place where the average life span is the mid-50’s and the average yearly temperature is double that. But Troost’s hilarious narrative on everything from the copious beer-consumption by the political leaders to the native peoples’ inexplicable love of “La Macarena” makes the islands of Kiribati seem positively…well, if not Edenic, at least entertaining.

review - girl trouble

“Girl Trouble: The true saga of superstar Gloria Trevi and the teenage sex cult that stunned the world”
By Christopher McDougall
(Harper Collins)

In Mexico, it was the story of the decade. But in America, while the scandalous story of Mexican singer-turned-fugitive Gloria Trevi was given media attention, it never reached household saturation - certainly not to the extent that native whirlwind cases like those of Laci Peterson, Chandra Levy, or Monica Lewinsky have achieved before or since. Christopher McDougall’s new book “Girl Trouble” may change that status.

McDougall meticulously traces Trevi’s often-sketchy history: from her short stint with girl group Boquitas Pintadas, to her missing years as an aerobic instructor with a mysterious abusive boyfriend, to her transformation from Gloria Trevino Ruiz, teen girl, to musician/actress Gloria Trevi, controversial wild-maned and stocking-tearing sex goddess, to Mexican fugitive, to Brazilian prisoner. He deconstructs her relationship with manager/producer Sergio Andrade, a short and – by most standards – unattractive man, who built a harem of young girls under pretense of making them stars.

Trevi’s story is amazing to those who may be unfamiliar with it: imagine a star of Madonna’s magnitude suddenly disappearing, accused of countless atrocities, including rape and kidnapping. A star who is routinely starved, beaten, and demeaned by her manager; locked naked in bathrooms and participating in group sex with young girls – all while presenting a fiercely strong “girl power” image on stage. McDougall, who met with both Trevi and Andrade while they were in prison, does an excellent job of telling not only their stories, but the stories of their accusers and victims, from future Mexican television star Aline to Gloria’s own cousin.

Despite the title, this story not only belongs to Trevi, but Andrade as well – one can’t help but feel that Gloria, more than anyone, fell victim to his ways – a judgment that a Mexican jury may have subscribed to as well, acquitting Trevi (and fellow harem member Mary Boquitas) of rape, kidnapping, and corruption of minors in September of 2004.

“Girl Trouble” avoids becoming the literary equivalent of a tabloid rag with McDougall’s analysis and insightful commentary on how these women could become so entranced by one, by all estimations, unspectacular man. All in all, “Girl Trouble” is compulsively readable; a wholly unnerving look at a story so wild, so unbelievable, that it stretches the bounds of fiction and comes back around to fact.

review - scoot over skinny

“Scoot Over Skinny: The Fat Nonfiction Anthology”
Edited by Donna Jarrell and Ira Sukrungruang
(Harcourt)

The topic of weight is inescapable in American culture. Everyday life is filled with references to who’s lost it, who’s gained it, and the best and quickest way to get rid of it. In “Scoot Over, Skinny: the Fat Nonfiction Anthology,” Pam Houston, Anne Lamott, David Sedaris and other writers face the often touchy topic of the fat epidemic unflinchingly and unapologetically with a healthy portion of humor sandwiched in.

The selection of seventeen essays is diverse and overwhelmingly solid. A hefty chunk are written by authors who are “fat” themselves and relate daily struggles of fat men and women: eating, dating, going to the gym; even, in one memorable story, ringing in the “Nude Year” (editor Donna Jarrell’s “Fat Lady Nuding”). Refreshingly few of the writers mince words, as our PC world is wont to do – they don’t use terms like “large” or “big boned” – fat is unequivocally, unapologetically the word of choice, and by the end of the book, the term itself feels empowered.

But not every contributor is overweight or even initially sympathetic to the plight of the obese – two of the most striking tales come from people who experience difficulty when they become close to an overweight person: a psychiatrist who must treat a patient whom he finds repulsive (Irvin Yalom’s “Fat Lady”), and a bird-thin woman who – grudgingly - falls for a 300 pound man (Lori Gottlieb’s “Fat Like Him”). Sarah Fenske’s “Big Game Hunters” is potentially the most controversial entry, and brings the concept of “hogging” to the table – men who pursue trysts with fat women, typically to degrade them, but sometimes (gasp!) because they LIKE them. These and other tales flesh out the collection, making it especially relatable for those of every size – not just the heavyweights among us.

I have only one caveat: if you’re among the small handful of book hounds that pores over every bit of printed word you can find, this anthology may not be for you. Half of the stories have been previously published, although all but one essay will probably be new to most - those in the know will quickly recognize David Sedaris’ contribution, “A Shiner Like a Diamond,” from his collection “Me Talk Pretty One Day.” But that’s hardly reason enough to strike this thought-provoking book from a recommended reading list.

“Scoot Over, Skinny” certainly owes its existence to America’s obsession with fat. But unlike recent bestsellers “The South Beach Diet” or “The Abs Diet,” this book’s readers – whether fat, thin, or somewhere in between - are sure to close the covers with a new appreciation for their bodies, instead of an urge to clear their pantries of rice and bread.

review - digging james dean

"Digging James Dean"
By Robert Eversz
(Simon & Schuster)

L.A. citizen Nina Zero, ex-con, paparazza, and toothless dog owner, is back in her fourth novel. After a photo tip from a teenage runaway leads her to an angry confrontation with a past-his-prime action star, Nina suspects that there’s something more to his story than not wanting to appear in the tabloid rag Scandal Times. The plot thickens when she discovers the same runaway is involved in a celebrity grave-robbing scheme. Soon after, the death of her estranged mother brings her back together with a sister she hasn’t seen in over twenty years – a sister she might have been better off without. Add to the mix a healthy dose of tabloid fodder involving the Raelians, Scientologists, murder, actors, and house hunting, with enough twists and turns to make a merry go round dizzy, and what you have is a realistic action mystery, with snazz and style befitting a post-Agatha Christie world.

Nina Zero is a modern and layered anti-heroine who will appeal to men and women alike. Despite her shady past and penchant for getting involved in troublesome situations, she’s famously clean-mouthed and filled with good intentions. Even alongside the book’s celebrity focus, Eversz refuses to depict L.A. with glitz and glamour and fills the story with a realistic portrayal of the other half of Hollywood; from the desperate teens with the desire to ‘make it big’ at any cost, to Nina’s struggle with memories of her abusive father. While the conclusion seems a bit hasty, the loose ends left behind are prime fodder for an inevitable fifth Nina Zero story.

Don’t plan on reading if you have pressing business to attend to. Digging James Dean is more than just a book you can’t put down; it’s a book that, once started, ends up on the passenger seat of your car to be read while caught in the infamous L.A. gridlock – or even just long traffic lights.

review - the facts behind the helsinki roccamatios

“The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios”
By Yann Martel
(Harcourt)

Nearly ten years prior to Life of Pi’s release to wild acclaim stateside, Booker Prize winning novelist Yann Martel published a collection of short stories in his native Canada. Now available for the first time in the United States, readers are sure to be abuzz at what is likely to be only their second look at new works by the author.

The four stories vary in style and length, from the titular novella “Roccamatios” to the concluding “The Vita Aeterna Mirror Company,” which upon first inspection, appears to be written in verse.

In the titular offering, a young man finds himself companion to a young man who is dying of AIDS. Despite being written ten years ago, when the AIDS epidemic was perceived very differently, the tale stands out as one of human joy and suffering, not of educating and preaching, as many stories of the early 90s do. “Roccamatios” is not an AIDS story, it is a story of anyone who is trying to give meaning to a life that is ending.

“Manners of Dying” explores one theme over and over: a letter from the Warden to a death row prisoner’s mother, describing her son’s last hours. In similarly structured yet vastly different and (apparently) randomly numbered “manners” that give the sense of stretching to infinity, Martel explores not only one man’s last hours, but many facets of human reaction when faced with death.

The whimsical “The Vita Aeterna Mirror Company” is a lyrical tale of a callow young man who does not appreciate his grandmother, until he discovers an almost magical secret buried in the mirrors in her home.

Arguably the strongest story in the collection, “The Time I Heard the Private Donald J. Rankin String Concerto with One Discordant Violin, by the American Composer John Morton” evokes Salinger at his best. A young Canadian man visiting an unseen friend in Washington D.C. happens upon an imperfect, yet, to his ears, divine orchestra, the singular work of a Vietnam veteran, and reaches a quiet epiphany about everyday life – “why [don’t we] ask for more?” With this story, and with all in the collection, Martel perfectly portrays the aimless drift that haunts many young people, and for a moment, gives his characters - as well as his readers – purpose and understanding.

It is clear that Martel’s writing has matured in the time since these stories were originally written, but the reader should not be dissauded. Although no story in this collection reaches the fluid style of Life of Pi, all are works that showcase the young author’s creativity and potential. Even if a reader had never heard of Martel’s famous novel, after reading “The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios” they would know they were in the presence of a remarkable talent.

review - as seen on tv

“As Seen on TV”
By Sarah Mlynowski
(Red Dress Ink)

Twenty-four year old Sunny Langstein is at that awkward age between college and being a grown up. She still wears the built in retainer from her days in braces, she’s stuck in an entry level job at a beverage company, and has a firm belief that “one day, [she’ll] do something real.” The most real thing she’s doing at the moment, though, is quitting her job in Florida to move in with her long distance boyfriend in New York City. Desperate when her scheduled job in NYC falls through, she’s at a loss until her father’s new girlfriend offers Sunny a job on the new reality show “Party Girls”—not as an assistant as she first suspects, but as one of the titular “girls.”

Sunny has never been one for fashion or glamour, but as quick as a wink she’s soaking up all the perks of being on reality TV: makeovers, painful brazilian waxes, free clothes, attention from celebrities. The only hitch—as one of the four members of the “Party Girls” team she has to pretend she’s single, much to the chagrin of her boyfriend, Steve.

Sunny quickly steps into the role of “Sunny Lang,” reality star extraordinaire and “mother hen,” alongside her costars—each of whom fulfill an archetype of the reality show world: Brittany, the drunk; Erin, the slut; Michelle, the beauty. Along the way, Sunny becomes hilariously obsessed as to what others think of her TV alter ego. (“There is no way I’m going to admit that I do Internet searches on my name. Very uncool. I’m a TV star. Jennifer Aniston does not search the internet for her name.”) What began as a ten-week temporary job soon threatens to overtake her life.

When “Party Girls” is forced under threat of cancellation to become a “winner takes all” competition for “Ultimate Party Girl,” Sunny is determined to win at any cost. Even if it means she loses her boyfriend in the process.

“As Seen on TV” doesn’t break any new ground in the chick lit world, but it is a nice departure from Mlynowski’s previous bland offerings, “Milkrun” and “Fishbowl.” She has an excellent handle on the confusion experienced by many mid-twenty somethings, as well as offering hilariously biting commentary on the stereotypes and conventions of reality television. (“What if you end up villainized like Geri [sic] from Survivor or that Simon guy?” Sunny’s sister asks at one point. “You’re not going to pose for Playboy, are you? And look at the Real World people now. They’re always whining.”)

Fans of reality TV and Sex and the City will appreciate this fictional glimpse into how one woman got carried away by her fifteen minutes of fame…and how she found her way back to reality.

ya review (classic) - what happened to lani garver

"What Happened to Lani Garver"
By Carol Plum-Ucci
(Harcourt)



Do you believe in angels? Claire thinks she does, after Lani Garver arrives in Hackett, an island town near Philadelphia. Lani is beautiful, androgynous ("Not a girl" Lani replies at one point), and intriguing. Claire befriends him, despite derision from her popular friends.

Lani seems to know just what Claire, a cancer survivor, needs; from taking her to the doctor to introducing her to his diverse group of friends in Philadelphia. But Lani never gives a straight answer, and a mysterious aura surrounds him - could he be a "floating angel", sent to care for Claire?

The readers knows from the gripping prologue that something sinister happened to Lani, and it caused Claire to change. By the end of the book, you still don't have any concrete answers, leaving the reader to speculate who - or what - Lani was. Plum-Ucci's prose is vivid, and her characters are strong and realistic. This book would make a great movie!

master review list

BY AUTHOR

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z


B

Barlow, Andrew and Kent Roberts - A Portrait of Yo Mama as a Young Man
Bushnell, Candace - Trading Up

C
Church, Steven - The Guinness Book of Me

D

Douthat, Ross Gregory - Privilege: Harvard and the Education of the Ruling Class

E

Eversz, Robert - Digging James Dean

J

Jarrell, Donna and Ira Sukrungruang - Scoot Over Skinny: A Fat Nonfiction Anthology
Jones, Tayari - The Untelling

K

Krinsky, Natalie - Chloe Does Yale

M

McDougall, Christopher - Girl Trouble
Martel, Yann - The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios
Mlynowski, Sarah - As Seen on TV

P

Plum-Ucci, Carol - What Happened to Lani Garver

S

Shelton, Sandi Kahn - What Comes After Crazy
Sparks, Nicholas - True Believer

T
Troost, J. Maarten - The Sex Lives of Cannibals


BY TITLE

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z


A

As Seen on TV by Sarah Mlynowski

C

Chloe Does Yale by Natalie Krinsky

D

Digging James Dean by Robert Eversz

F

The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios by Yann Martel

G

Girl Trouble: The true saga of superstar Gloria Trevi and the teenage sex cult that stunned the world by Christopher McDougall
The Guinness Book of Me by Steven Church

P

A Portrait of Yo Mama as a Young Man by Andrew Barlow and Kent Roberts
Privilege: Harvard and the Education of the Ruling Class by Ross Gregory Douthat

S

Scoot Over Skinny: A Fat Nonfiction Anthology, Edited by Donna Jarrell and Ira Sukrungruang
The Sex Lives of Cannibals by J. Maarten Troost

T

Trading Up by Candace Bushnell
True Believer by Nicholas Sparks

U
The Untelling by Tayari Jones

W

What Comes After Crazy by Sandi Kahn Shelton
What Happened to Lani Garver by Carol Plum-Ucci

review - trading up

"Trading Up"
By Candace Bushnell
(Hyperion)



Candace Bushnell has managed to ride the wave of Sex and the City with great success - which means that this insufferably bland and self-indulgent book is going to be read by every woman with extra time between her massage and wax. In "Trading Up," upscale New Yorkers with caricature names air-kiss and backstab with reckless abandon - and the best at this is 33 year old Janey Wilcox. She's a trite and shallow Victoria's Secret model who exists only to "trade up" - that is, become even higher society and more powerful in whatever (usually seductory) manner she can.

Bushnell fails to infuse her supposed heroine with any humanity, except for during the flashback to her early modeling days in Paris. If this is supposed to convince the reader why Janey is such a bitch, it fails. Also noted are Bushnell's particular focus on dates and times: this shallow NYC is pre September 11, she seemingly wants to remind us (why else two mentions of the view of the twin towers from Selden's office?) But with a cast of characters so devoid of emotion, why does it matter?

"Trading Up" is a complete pooper, not even a proper beach read.