The Giant's House by Elizabeth McCracken

I loved Niagara Falls All Over Again and was haunted by the story of Rocky and Mose, so it's a surprise it took me this long to get back to McCracken's earlier novel. I'm sorry I waited but I'm so glad I read it.

Subtitled, "a romance", The Giant's House is most certainly a love story but it's also a story of family and finding a sense of place. Peggy Cort, the small town, Cape Cod librarian is an unusual narrator but one whose quirks and humanity are endearing. Our giant, James Carlson Sweatt, is growing and growing from the time we meet him as an eleven-year old until he can grow no more. McCracken shines in the telling of how the two become linked with gentleness and grace, two qualities neither Peggy nor James would be identified by. Lovely, sad, sweet and moving.

The Stranger by Albert Camus

I last read this book in high school, not only to satisfy my curiosity about the author but also because of the song Killing An Arab by The Cure. How cool that the music I was now listening to was also so damned literate! I must be cool, too. That last point is debatable. Should we actually debate it with anyone who knew me then, I'm sure I would be pronounced decidedly not cool. Anyway, let's just say, I was wearing a lot of black turtlenecks (and let's face it, black turtlenecks weren't exactly plentiful in the fine haberdasheries of small town Western Pennsylvania so obviously, I was quite committed), smoking cigarettes, listening to sad music by sad musicians, reading sad books by sad authors and lamenting. Lots of lamenting, as memory serves and the age requires. Plus, the first line of the book,"Mother died today", was right in my sweet spot.

Despite being in my 40's, I remembered the book well and found it much the same--pointlessness celebrated. Sort of like the French New Wave actors like Jean Paul Belmondo and Alain Delon, all black & white and smoking cigarettes and making love and drinking wine and living for today because there is no tomorrow. And the boredom. The main character, Meursault is exquisitely bored with everything--his friends, his job, his mother's recent death and I'm certain that appealed to my teenage self. What's funny is now I find his boredom boring. The book wasn't boring. It was Meursault's attitude which I found boring in the "goodness, we've done boring to death already, haven't we?"

Oddly, I found The Stranger to be much funnier than I remembered. In fact, I was laughing throughout; laughter I'm unsure was intended by the author and was most certainly lost on me as a sensitive 16 year-old.

However you choose to approach it, The Stranger is a must-read. It was a ground-breaking work from a school of thought that is part of literature and part of history. Camus was a fine writer and was leading a charge that was tremendously influential. If you had to read it for school or haven't read it since your own black turtlenecked days, you are heartily encouraged to pick it up again and spend another jaunty, lighthearted day at the beach with Meursault.

Sherman Alexie and the Kindle Fistfight in Blogosphere

In a May 31, New York Times piece about Book Expo, Sherman Alexie railed against e-readers, in general, and the Amazon Kindle, in particular, calling it "elitist." This naturally caused quite a kerfuffle on many industry blogs and all over Twitter.

The article below by Ed Champion allows Alexie to go into detail and, not surprisingly, he doesn't back down. He raises some good points even though I find parts of his argument rather unrealistic. Still, it's not like Alexie doesn't give good quote or fails to offer up some thoughtful opinions.

http://www.edrants.com/sherman-alexie-clarifies-elitist-charges/

Post book show buzz

Though I wasn't at BookExpoAmerica, the big book industry trade show this year, here are a couple of good articles about the show, the first from Publishers Weekly, giving a heads up on some of the big books for the fall. From the look of things, I think this is the biggest fall I've seen in a number of years and considering the economy and the state of the book industry, it's a damn good sign. There are books by some big hitters like William Trevor, Margaret Atwood, Barbara Kingsolver and Nicholson Baker. Oh, and some guy named Dan Brown. (Dan Brown? Never heard of him.)

As you might imagine, I'm psyched about the new Sherman Alexie, the long-awaited next book from Audrey Niffenegger, and new novels by Richard Russo and Jonathan Lethem.

http://www.publishersweekly.com/article/CA6661807.html?industryid=49050

This second piece from the Washington Post, is more a look at where things stand right now within the industry. While some say the book biz is as cold as a corpse, I'd say it's closer to tepid. Still, it appears the future is now and the industry might finally be ready to admit it and, more importantly, act on it.


http://snurl.com/j78vk

My Abandonment by Peter Rock

If you tell me who I am, should I believe you?

In this disquieting novel by Peter Rock, identity is questioned from several angles and told from the POV of Caroline, a bright, 13 year old girl who lives with Father in the largest city park in Portland. We're not sure where she came from, what's really in store for her or what exactly Father's true motives are as he tries to keep them both "off the grid" and undiscovered in plain sight.

Father appears to be a veteran with recurring and disturbing dreams of helicopters while Caroline has a vague memory of a sister and parents that were part of her life before Father and is reminiscent of the Elizabeth Smart kidnapping a few years back. Rock continually blurs the line between genuine parental love and concern and the sense of "ownership" Father has over Caroline.

And how's life with Father? He's smart and kind, wise and strong and seems to truly believe he's doing what's best for her but let's face it--he's creepy. His sincerity is creepy and with Caroline on the very verge of puberty and a new level of self-awareness, it makes Father even creepier. While he is constantly teaching Caroline and educating her with the help of encyclopedias and trips to the public library, he has chosen this life, this homelessness, for them and that is no life in which to raise a child.

I wondered if Rock would be able to sustain that sense of foreboding, the tension of not getting caught and fear not--the book is unsettling throughout. Needless to say, Marley & Me, this isn't, but it is an intriguing if disturbing look at who we are to ourselves and to each other.

For more about the author, visit http://www.peterrockproject.com/

Captain Freedom by G. Xavier Robillard

A friend of mine sent this to me and I have to say I was skeptical at first. The author is a McSweeney's guy and I have a real prejudice there, mostly because everyone seems to thinks its all brilliant stuff and I just don't get it; leaves me as flat and cold as a flounder in a fridge. But I trust my friend, I love the superhero thang and I needed something light to read on my cruise.

Gotta say, perfect vacation read. Captain Freedom is fast, funny and surprisingly insightful especially on the subject of fame in our current society.

The Captain is an analyst's wet dream: vain as hell and COMPLETELY self-absorbed, yet still somehow super-heroic. The world Robillard has created is clever and plays to how ridiculously obsessed we have become with all things "celebrity". Even the super famous want to be more famous. Where does it end?

Now, there was no lack of groaners (a dinosaur called a "Thesaurus", for example. Must we? Really?) and it sometimes felt like that sitcom style of writing where they try to cram as many gags per page as possible but it can be forgiven. Much like the drink du jour my faithful server, Nestor, kept bringing me on-deck, Captain Freedom was a tasty mix of frothiness and pithiness, served up tall and cool.

City of Thieves by David Benioff

I had never heard of David Benioff, I hadn't read any reviews of this book, no hype, nothing but this one had me at the cover. Something about it's Adrian Tomine-esque artwork and it's Charlie Brown pine tree just grabbed me and told me the story inside was worth reading. Then I read the 5 page intro. Three times because I couldn't believe how pitch perfect it was.

It's 1942, the siege of Leningrad. Bleak, cold, desolate. Lev, a 15 year old boy and Kolya, a Russian soldier, end up in a jail cell together, pleading innocence of their individual charges. A colonel makes them an impossible deal: in exchange for their freedom, the boy and the solider must find one dozen eggs for the wedding cake of his daughter who is about to marry. During the Siege of freakin' Leningrad!

Part buddy picture, part coming-of-age tale and certainly part "horrors of war" story, Benioff has created a masterful novel that is wildly funny, deeply moving and profoundly meaningful. The characters are rich, history is respected and Benioff has the ability to make you feel a part of the story; like you're there in this freezing, Russian winter, hungry as hell, scared, with your very freedom just within reach despite the absurdity and impossibility of what has been asked of you.

This will be the book against which the rest of his upcoming books will be measured and it will be no small task to best this one. I wish him luck and look forward to more.

Trying to catch up with The Good Thief

Well, I'm easily the blogger who blogs the least. Sort of an anti-blogger. I don't mean to be. I am backed up on book posts like I've been eating matzah all week. (I haven't been eating matzah all week though I should have been eating matzah all week. Another story entirely.) But it's got me on this rant about not getting the things done I really want to because I have all this other crap that needs my attention, as well.

For example, I really needed to get started on the yard yesterday as it appears that a herd of meerkats (a flock? a pride?) must have moved into my backyard over the winter and I never noticed somehow. The yard behind the garage is lousy with tunnels, mounds and bald patches. As I mowed, I was cutting the tops of these mounds off and releasing a geyser of dirt and dust into the air--charming. What I'm saying is the time I spent decapitating giant anthills could've been spent blogging about Tinti's The Good Thief, which I promised to post about months ago but haven't. So I will. Long story short: I loved this book.

The story opens in an orphanage where we meet 12-year Ren, a one-handed orphan with a head full of lice and the tiniest hope of being adopted in his heart. Con artist Benjamin Nab, who is up to no good though is as charming and resourceful as the day is long, adopts Ren and finds him a quick study. Thus begins a tale that is a throwback to the likes of Dickens workhouse thieves or the stories of Robert Louis Stevenson. Narrow escapes, evil factory owners, kindly landladies, mousetrap girls, murderers, poverty, sickness and a sense of family--it's a rollicking tale and beautifully written. Tinti has a wonderful way with words and imbues the many characters with great humanity despite their many, many flaws. She can also be damned funny. Too, there is a cinematic quality to this story. You can just picture it all unfolding in front of you on a big screen.

With all the swashbuckling exploits and wonderful characters, The Good Thief offers a reassuring payoff: it finds family where there wasn't before. The author Richard Bach has a quote I've always loved that I think captures what Hannah Tinti does so well with this book:

"The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other's life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof."

Enjoy The Good Thief.

J'Accuse!

Seriously. Have we learned nothing despite what we know we know? Like many other industries, publishing has been hit hard by this ugly and moribund economy. Lots of layoffs, an outdated business model and a shrinking buying public have led to promises of new thinking, innovation and efficiencies by those in charge and lots of public braying by those saying I told you so. Embracing new technologies like making digital publishing profitable for all involved (author, publisher, bookstore, etc.) seems to be the way to go and the mouthpieces at the larger houses assure us they’re hard at work at it while the rest of us Twitter away as though our very lives depend on it.

So, here sits the publishing industry at the corner of potential poverty and prosperity and what do we do? Hand out multi-million dollar advances to “authors” that have little possibility of earning out as though this industry crash has never happened.

Just today, it was announced that George W. Bush signed with Crown for $7 million. Last week, bestseller Audrey Niffenegger scored herself $4mil for the follow-up to her sleeper hit, The Time Travelers Wife and that was followed by hero/pilot Chesley Sullenberger III signing a two book deal worth $3 million; the second book will be his own inspirational poems.

Now Niffenegger is the only actual actual “author” in the bunch. I thought her first book was tremendous and the professional pep-squads are saying this book is even better. Still, good freakin’ luck earning out a $7 mil advance and don’t tell me it’s only because the book went to auction.

The hero/pilot's story is certainly compelling but what more is there to say? Don’t get me wrong: great job, Sully. You really ARE a hero but how much more is there? Birds hit plane, plane goes down, pilot saves plane and passengers, all in about 3 minutes. And your ‘inspirational poems’? Oh Christ. Not that!

As for W., it was inevitable and spinning the book as a examination of a dozen decisions he made as opposed to a straight memoir is actually great spin considering the esteem in which he’s held these days. But $7 million dollars?!? Will you be among the buying public for this title? I can assure you it sure as hell ain’t gonna be reviewed here.

Look kids, we’re drowning here and money, BIG money, is being thrown at questionable books. Can someone please tell the upstairs execs to quit it. It’s turning into big-money sports and we always say we hate that, right? All that ‘baseball has lost its soul’ stuff when Manny signs for $45 million for two years. So now it’s "well, if author X got $3 mil, we have to get our author 4". Look, I don’t begrudge Audrey a whole wheel barrow full o’ dough--she's a terrific writer. But now? Today? When we’re in the mess we’re in? Some perspective. Please. And maybe just a shred of integrity.

A couple of things

Lucky me, I've gotten some wonderful books of late.

I'm smack in the middle of Jedediah Berry's marvelous debut, The Manual of Detection. Clever and wry, funny and smart, it's reminds me of Jasper Fforde (LOVE Jasper! Plus he answers his own emails) though not as sci-fi. It's only been out a week so I encourage you to get it. If you don't already trust my recommendations, the fine folks at Penguin have provided the first chapter online: http://tinyurl.com/d2487a. Can't wait to finish it and write something here.

In today's mail, I received new sandals in preparation for my upcoming cruise. However, upon opening the box, not only did I find I was the recipient of two LEFT sandals but they were of different sizes. Alas. It was the doldrums for me.

Fortunately, Tom, the handsome FedEx guy, arrived an hour or so later and lifted my spirits with an uncorrected manuscript from the good people at Riverhead (Lord, I feel like I'm on the Penguin teat at the moment!). Enclosed was a copy of It Feels So Good When I Stop by Joe Pernice with a lovely note from Joe on a card with Wonder Woman on it.

If you're not familiar with Joe as a novelist (his first book was part of the 33 1/3 series a few years back; a novella based on the Smiths album Meat Is Murder; ring a bell?), you might know him as a musician as he is the driving force, singer, songwriter, guitarist of The Pernice Brothers, and for my money is among the most literate songwriters around. He's one of those guys to whose music you listen to and say, "Man, that guy has a novel in him". Well, not only does he but it'll be published this Fall.

So forgive me if I'm a little giddy as I write this and know that once I finish The Manual of Detection, I plan on diving head-first into It Feels So Good When I Stop.

Hello Everybody! The Dawn of American Radio by Anthony Rudel

I love radio despite what it's become--noisy and tasteless and corporate beyond belief. While corporations have almost always been a major part of radio, what we're forced to accept now by and large has left it sterile, bland, and as lifeless as a fish on the shore after the tide has gone back out to sea.

The idea of it, invisible waves going through the air that transmit music and opinion and news to you in your home or your car or wherever you can pick it up, is almost too strange to be real. That was certainly the feeling at the early part of the last century, when, admittedly, the world was much bigger than it is now and we weren't nearly so connected or educated. Rudel explains in a light and informative style, how in less than 2o years, radio changed America and the world.

In a short time, Americans latched on to radio with paws and claws and it changed how we thought, how we listened, how we were entertained and informed and from there, it spread its reach around the world. That farmers in Nebraska could hear about swells dancing to an orchestra at the Waldorf-Astoria in Manhattan suddenly made the world a lot smaller. It made stars of some, created business empires for others, all the while keeping the people informed as they had never been before and changed us forever.

One of the elements of the book that caught my attention were the number of striking parallels from then and now--radio and the Internet, a nation facing a devastating economic crisis, the failures of Herbert Hoover and George W., the successes of FDR and Obama. Radio was originally the pursuit of amateur hobbyists; a small-time operation without regulation and with little sense of its own reach and potential. Who was it for? What could it do? The other question that loomed large was who owned the airwaves and who controlled them? Interestingly, these same questions were asked again in the last 10 or 15 years about the Internet. Let's hope we learn well before the Internet is completely taken from us and put in corporate hands, as well.

Leaping into the future?

I just signed up at Twitter in the hope that by tweeting regularly, it will cause me to blog more regularly and when all those Twitter types see how clever I am, they will race here and see what a wit I am and will clamor for more of that certain je ne sais quois de Reed Next, oui? Circular logic, I know but I've got to do something to spur myself on. Otherwise, I'll continue on as the most irregular blogger on the planet and will never be able to afford that operation for my maiden aunt since I'm paid so extravagantly for doing this.

You can follow me on Twitter: @reednext


I even found a photo of me I'd forgotten all about to use as my profile pic. It's from a few years back and was taken in the rumpus room with my old dog, Wally. A good dog, Wally was, and a good friend. He could hold his gin better than a bunch of Episcopalian country clubbers on 4th of July.

And since this is supposed to be a blog about books, I finished Hello Everybody: The Dawn of American Radio by Anthony Rudel last night (most enjoyable and I shall write more soon) and started the much vaunted Manual of Detection by Jedediah Berry. I was only a few pages into it before the Sandman smacked me upside the head but I'm quite intrigued. Thus far, it smacks of Jasper Fforde so that bodes well.

Breakfast at Tiffanys

Despite its stature as a classic, I'd never read the book. I'm so glad I did. A slim 80-something pages, Breakfast At Tiffanys reads very quickly but I have to agree that it is a defining work by a then up-and-coming author who got it just right. Had it been any longer, it would have risked being overwritten and betrayed the outstanding economy of the story. I knew I was done for when Capote described Holly as "a fragile eyeful".

This was a New York of a different time. Much romanticized since, it was a city that could contain majesty amidst squalor, like the story's neighbors under the shared roof of a Manhattan apartment building.

I saw the movie version years ago and don't remember it all that well, though I knew then it was quite different from the novel. Usually, a book turned film can't be done justice because of its length and depth. Breakfast At Tiffanys certainly has the depth and one would think the book's length would accommodate, for once, film's limitations. Whether Hollywood wasn't at a place in time where they could stay closer to Capote's story or they simply chose this as a starring vehicle for Audrey Hepburn, I don't know. After reading the real Holly, I don't see Hepburn at all--less nymph and more strumpet is in order--but I am curious to watch it again.

Still, if this is one of those books you've always meant to get to, I encourage you to spend a short time with Capote and with Holly. It's a wild ride but a trip well worth taking.

I am Yinzer! Here me roar!

In case you haven't heard, there's a big football game being played this weekend. My passion for books is rivaled (perhaps) only by my enduring love of the Pittsburgh Steelers. It is, like Lionel Richie and Diana Ross sang, an endless love. I bleed Black and Gold (notice when referring to the Steelers, the colors become uppercase).

No tourist am I; no fair weather fan; no jumper of bandwagons. Having grown up in Western Pennsylvania in the ‘70’s, it seemed to me the Steelers were always the champs much like FDR always seemed to be president to the generation before me. My neighbor’s father died of a heart attack, so happy was he that the Steelers won a Super Bowl. When I was in first grade, I met running back Franco Harris when he signed autographs at a department store in my home town. That same signed photo sits on my desk in my office, near photos of my wife and my old dog.

I live in a city whose football fans used to, at least, respect my team but now despise them, not only because their meager offering to the NFL consistently gets their asses handed to them when they play the Steelers but also because they perceived a season-ending injury inflicted on their quarterback as a dirty hit when it wasn’t and the guy who did the hitting was a well-liked former Bengal with no reputation as a dirty player, ever. What used to be gentle ribbing and high-spirited teasing has become nasty and personal and-- I digress!

What I wanted to do before I got off on this rant was recommend a couple of books I’ve read about my beloved team who are poised to win more Super Bowls than any other team, ever. The toughest, roughest, franchise. The pride of Western PA. The classiest franchise in the NFL. The incredible Pittsburgh Steelers.

This is a memoir by running back Jerome Bettis. Tolstoy it ain't but it's an enjoyable look at the Bus and his last season before he retired. Great phots and a cool DVD, too.



Another memoir, this time by the owner of the franchise. Mr. Rooney is a class act, like his father who founded the franchise, and the organization is held to the same standard. As an employee of the Steelers, you are expected to win whether you're a player or the IT guy. It's part of what makes the franchise what it is. If you're so inclined, I posted a review of this book early last year so you can search the archives.


The last one is a memoir by the former voice of the Steelers, Myron Cope, who we lost in 2008. His rather grating voice and heavy 'Burgh accent made people from outside W. PA wince but that voice always sounded like home to me. He invented the Terrible Towel in 1975 when he told people to bring gold dish towels to wave to a playoff game. He held the rights to the Towel and not many people knew until he died that the profits, almost 2.5 Million dollars, went to a school for people with physical disabilities and mental retardation. We miss you, Myron.

Perhaps more than you'd bargained for

Alas, dear reader (you know who you are--both of you), I can only apologize for my time away from blogging. While I've been reading and making my judgments on several books, I can but plead to a distinct lack of creativity coupled with a subsequent lack of desire to share my thoughts. It's not you. It's me. Really.

With that in mind, I pledge to do better and keep you current on what Reed reads. I've also changed the color scheme some though I'm undecided if I like it or not. Perhaps it's time for Reed Next to get a face lift. Any thoughts?

Now that I've begged your forgiveness, duly chastised myself and taken a quick shower, here are my choices for my favorite books for 2008:

• The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid by Bill Bryson
• Cerealizing America: The Unsweetened Story of American Breakfast Cereal by Scott Bruce and Bill Crawford
• Just Say Nu by Michael Wex
• The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein
• The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski
• The Deportees by Roddy Doyle
• The Good Thief by Hannah Tinti
• St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves by Karen Russell
• So Brave, Young, and Handsome by Leif Enger
• Dear American Airlines by Jonathan Miles
• City of Thieves by David Benioff

As you can see, I've included both fiction and non-fiction in my picks and for all but two of these titles, you can find a post on this site. (I owe you reviews of the books by Tinti and Benioff and they will be added shortly.) These are in no particular order but if I had to choose my Book of the Year, and I must say, I had the good fortune to read some wonderful books, I'd have to choose City of Thieves. It is a remarkable story, beautifully told.

Oddly, there seem to be two common threads in these titles, one canine, as evidenced by my choices of books by Russell, Stein and Wroblewski; the other being thievery as evidenced by Tinti, Benioff and, if you will indulge me, Miles (you may decide for yourselves about the airlines but I live in Cinn city where our airport is the most expensive in the country for no good reason).

In the spirit of encouraging you to follow my example of the 50 Page Rule (To wit: if a book doesn't grab you in about 50 pages, close the book and start another. Life is too short to plod through a book you don't like), I have picked up and put down a few to which I offer a heads-up and thumbs down:

The Book Of Lies by Brad Meltzer. Despite having my favorite author inscription (he called me "the best human ever!"--how insightful), this book showed initial promise. However, I think this briskly paced potboiler is trying to be too many things at once.

The Moviegoer by Walker Percy. I'll be taken to task for dissing a book held in such high esteem by so many but I would ask, who among you is reading it for the first time in the 21st century as opposed to having read it years ago? If you were to read it now, you're likely to find it quite different without your your rose-colored bi-focals. It's dated style and feel left me cold and the characters are the very phonies Holden Caulfield railed against, except they're Southern and moneyed. Bah, says I.

I do think I may try an experiment this year. My old cellmate, Janet, the grande dame of bookselling, used to always alternate a new title and then an old one (she also bought CDs this way). I think I may add a wrinkle to this and revisit books I've read before to see if they still hold my attention and my ardor. Thus far, the year began with Breakfast at Tiffanys, followed up with What I Was by Meg Rosoff and currently has me reading the luxurious prose of McCracken's The Giant's House. Stay tuned. Reviews will post soon.

Deconstructing Sammy: Music, Money, Madness, and the Mob by Matt Birkbeck

Sammy was a massive talent, regarded by many as among the greatest entertainers ever. He could do it all--sing, dance, act, play several instruments and he broke down many barriers for black entertainers and the perceptions of white America. Offstage, he didn't know how to live. In a futile effort to make everyone love him, Sammy made terrible decisions, both in business and his personal life and burned most every bridge, including with Sinatra.

This disturbing look at Sam's later life, long after the spotlights had dimmed, shows how he descended into drug abuse and depression. After his death in 1990, Sammy Davis, Jr. owed the largest single tax debt to the IRS in history. His family was divided, his estate insolvent and the rights to his music, image, even his name, was owned by others.

Birkbeck's book chronicles the above-and-beyond efforts of Albert "Sonny" Murray, a former federal prosecutor, who spent years trying to untangle the train wreck that was Sammy's estate. Murray also tries to help Sammy's last wife, Altovise, a drunken golddigger who wanted her privileged life back but lacked the personal mettle to do the hard work of recovery. Altovise is both tragic and unforgivable. Sonny is the exact opposite; a Job-like man who sacrificed his personal life and earnings to try to restore Sammy's name. A page-turner but sadder than sad.

The Deportees by Roddy Doyle

Sorry about the vernacular but I fookin' love Roddy Doyle, okay? I don't care what you think of him and I won't apologize--I love him. I read whatever he writes and usually enjoy every word. There have been some books that are better than others, natch, but he's got a way with dialogue and a feel for how people are and can be.

Imagine my surprise when I found out he had a collection of short stories called "The Deportees".

I was thrilled!

Imagine my further surprise when I found out it had been out since January of this year.

I. Was. Pissed.

At a man named Jason.

Jason used to work for Penguin as a sales rep and knew I loved Doyle and always hooked me up with advance copies. He even got me a signed copy of "A Star Called Henry", bless his heart. (G-d I loved that book) Then Jason took another job, a better job, and stopped repping and now I don't know anyone at Penguin and can't get my Doyle early, let alone for free so I'm like the rest of the rabble--uninformed and paying for books like a chump.

Alright, I wasn't pissed at Jason, I was pissed at myself for not keeping up on one of my very favorite authors.

As for the book, if you're a Doyle fan, you have to read it. The eight stories aren't all great but the man can write such circles around so many of his contemporaries, it scares me (I'm actually a little scare right now writing this!).

Best of all, Doyle often revisits his characters and in this collection, we get to catch up with Jimmy Rabbitte, manager and founder of Dublin's hardest working soul rebels, the Commitments! It's a few years after the band has imploded. Jimmy's a family man now and, despite his better judgment, he decides, no he NEEDS to put a new band together. The Deportees, a multi-culti cast of musicians who form a band to perform Woody Guthrie songs, are a reflection of the wave of immigration that happened as Ireland went from being penniless, backward-ass Ireland to the Celtic Tiger, the most economically successful country in Europe in recent memory. And reading about Jimmy again (and his Da!) is like running into an old friend you forgot how much you loved.

When the White House Was Ours by Porter Shreve

If you look closely while watching old episodes of Star Trek, you’ll see the letters GNDN near various pipes and plumbing on the interior of the old Enterprise. It was an in-joke on the set. GNDN stands for ‘goes nowhere; does nothing”. That’s one of the first thoughts that came to mind after reading Porter Shreve’s latest novel, When the White House Was Ours.

The novel is described on the back cover as “loosely based on Porter Shreve's own childhood" (isn’t that what many novels are?). It was heavily reviewed in PW and Kirkus, et.al., prior to publication and blurbed by big names like Lorrie Moore and Jim Lehrer, so I figured his publisher was really trying to break him out with this book. The rub is, I got done with this one and remembered feeling the same way I felt a decade ago after reading his debut novel, The Obituary Writer, : GNDN.

Shreve seems a capable writer and includes all the elements that should make for a good novel: lots of characters, both likable and un-, a few plot twists, a pair of hapless parents whose marriage is quietly falling apart, and a sweet, shambling kid who’s caught in it all, along with some relatable coming-of-age yearnings and pubescent angst.

It kept me turning pages, as opposed to putting it down and invoking my “fifty page rule” but there was just NO payoff when I finished. The central theme, his weird parents attempt at starting an alternative school in bicentennial-era Washington DC while struggling to save their marriage and family, didn’t make me care about them. The characters didn’t grab me or make me love them or hate them. His sister wasn’t even developed enough as a character to warrant inclusion (maybe his mom made him put her in the book). If this ends up being his "breakout" book, someone puh-lease explain it to me.

What's nutty is I'm likely meet him this weekend at a local book festival and I doubt I'll have the balls to tell him what I really think.

The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski

There is very little I can add to everything that's been said about this marvelous book. First the indie booksellers warmed to it, then the reviewers, then the chain stores and now Oprah (insert sound of heavenly choir here) so millions will read it and deservedly so. This debut novel will be read forever.

In many ways, this is Hamlet retold but set in 20th century Wisconsin and featuring a shitload of dogs; way more than I remember in Hamlet, at least, and I checked.

Wroblewski has created some real beauty on the pages though his gift for description does slow things down and you have to work to get through these 500+ pages but there's nothing wrong with that. To finish the story of Edgar, his dead father, his evil uncle, Almondine, who might be the greatest dog ever, and the many other Sawtelle dogs, is vastly rewarding and emotionally rich.

As for Oprah, it only took 61 previous tries but I knew she'd eventually come around and see things my way. You go, girl.

Pigeons: the fascinating saga of the world's most revered and reviled bird

Before I go to dinner this evening and return this book to the pigeon enthusiast friend who lent it to me, I'm putting in a WAY overdue post because I see I haven't posted since late August. Even I'm surprised and I was behind then! For shame Book Blog Boy (say that 3 times fast)!!

As a self-proclaimed bird nerd, I borrowed the book because I had hoped to learn enough to change how I feel about pigeons. It isn't that I like them or dislike them--they're just here, there and everywhere, they aren't terribly pretty or engaging and they seem kind of dumb. In truth, they just don't really do much for me. I mean, wrens they ain't. (Wrens hold a particular fascination for me.)

I hoped this book would give me a new understanding and new found respect for the bird that most everyone hates; those boids we often refer to as "rats with wings".

This is what I learned:

• Pigeons have a vast and long history with humans.
• They can travel incredible distances at incredible speed, whether they're racing, delivering messages or just migrating.
• The people that get into pigeons, REALLY get into pigeons, often to the point of creepy obsession.
• They're not really dirtier nor do they carry more disease than any other animals; theysimply shit a lot, they shit big for their size and they shit near us since their habitat is our habitat and that disgusts us.
  

My biggest disappointment wasn't with the birds; it was with the author. Despite the blurbs from big names, the book reads like a bunch of Parade magazine pieces and not very well-written ones, if there are well-written Parade magazine pieces (Would those be People magazine pieces?). Blechman fails to make us care about the pigeons, the pigeon racers, the pigeon breeders, the pigeon hunters or the other pigeon devotees in the book; most just seem kind of nuts and a little sad. Oh, and his transitions at the chapter endings are atrocious! (People will never hire him with transitions like these.)

There may be a better book on pigeons out there. Should you care to seek it out, do so and skip this one.