Dale Peck isn’t just a bitch, but he’s an hubric mofo who compares his Moody blues to both Edmund Wilson and Virginia Woolf. (And, of course, the standard Coleridge line.)
Judy Blume is on the defensive. Her book, Deenie, deals in part with masturbation. But Hernando County elementary schools are pulling the book from their shelves.
Chica has a nice roundup of author photos. Me? I’m still squirming over Max Barry’s photo on Jennifer Government (see right). The book, which was so bad that I gave up on it (and I rarely do this), is terrible enough with its amateurish prose and failure to live up its central idea. But Barry himself looks instinctively like a new fraternity pledge who barely made it into the house. And I’d say the photo has helped me to hate the book more. Which isn’t good. Because I’d prefer to just erase the book out of my mind and reclaim the time I invested.
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. (
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. (
Okay….DEENIE IS NOT A NEW BOOK IT’S LIKE FROM 1978!!!!!!!! And if they think that’s bad, they should try “Wifey”. Or “Then Again, Maybe I Won’t”. Or ANY BOOK IN THE BLUME GENRE !
Ed, you need a woman in your life.
Also, re: Max Barry: I’d totally fuck him. In fact, I think I have. He sucked, though.
Hag: Is that a proposition? Goodness me, what would BOOG say?
Not THIS woman. Just someone to tell you about JUDY BLUME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Actually, Judy Blume herself is probably available — she’s hot.
Oh don’t worry about me. I’m setting up Judy Blume and Mary Rodgers in a three-way. I was talking about you and Max.
If they think Blume’s books are bad, they should read the “Gossip Girl” books. Which, I must say, I adore for no good reason.
As for Blume, the YA books=good, but the ones for adults? I despised Wifey and the other one whose name I’ve mercifully forgotten. Unpleasant people and just a general ick factor about everything.
I love WIFEY and I love FOREVER, and you can’t take that away from me.
I just have an unfortunate thing for intense, bald and Irish. Also digging the arm hair. I think I’ve personally finally learned that they are only good for drunken fucking though — DEFINITELY not for sober fucking and certainly not for sober company.
Ed, I’ll expect some sort of thanks for how I’m classing up your web site, you know.
Barry’s Australian, but I think the same rules pretty much apply. Certainly to me. Intense Irish men…danger alert, code red.
I see both of your points. But intense? Look at Barry’s lip and tell me that it doesn’t scream out “dweeb.”
Oh, yeah, he’s clearly a fuckhead. But that’s why I’ve probably already slept with him.
Wait, so let me get this straight. Everyone you’ve slept with is a fuckhead. But not all fuckheads you’ve slept with? Or is it that the state of “fuckhead” is achieved post coitus?
Btw Ed, Max Barry resembles every other skinhead from our old high school romping grounds. But I’m sure Max is a fine, overly tolerant wordsmith.
Jennifer Government, I actually read the whole thing. Well, it wasn’t hard to read, it took me all of four hours, that was probably half the damned problem. Interesting idea, which is used up by the second chapter.