A New Poster for “Reno 911: Miami”
– February 27, 2007Posted in: Film
Books To Jump Up and Down Over
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (Bat Segundo interview with Murphy)
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (Bat Segundo interview with McClear)
Is that the one with Mrs. Gretzky?
What a perfectly calibrated observation my dear boy…now if you could be so kind and please replace the toilet paper I will refrain from calling the employment service who sent you here today. I have some complaints, and one of them involves your hygeine. Ghastly, simply ghastly. You smell like a character from a Bryan Stanley Johnson novel. Albert Angelo, I believe. And it’s not my fault your parents couldn’t afford University, so whatever you’re about to do, please don’t.
Sir, if you do not recognize the finer points of bathing in your own toilet water and watching Porky’s I, II, and III in one setting (ideally enjoyed with a 12-pack of Lucky and a freshly opened package of that fine delicacy known as Doritos Cool Ranch), well then I’m afraid you’re in no position to quibble over exquisite trash. Exquisite, sir! Something that no higher education can teach! I sincerely hope that one day, you will ruminate, nay PONTIFICATE, upon the grand wonders of dumb movies. Your experimental novelists hurt my head. They cause me to use BRAIN CELLS. I trust, good sir, that you are aware of the cultural controversy you have unleashed!
My good man, you are talking to the founding member of the Andy Sidaris Fan Club! And dare I mention my time as a bartender at the Original Stringfellow’s? Where I met and began a torrid affair with Jenny Runacre? Who used to read Ann Berg’s Quin to me while administering the most delicate and sublime enema in all of Shepard’s Bush? I’m being very rhetorical right now, my dear. Please, for God’s sake, don’t pull a muscle.