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 Lots of layoffs, an outdated business model and a shrinking buying public have led to promises of new thinking, innovation and efficiencies by those in charge and lots of public braying by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.

The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid by Bill Bryson

I was enthralled by Bryson's earliest books about the English language, The Mother Tongue and Made in America. I read and re-read them and still turn to them. Then he broke through with his books about travel and he became a huge star. People were devouring Notes From a Small Island and A Walk in the Woods but they left me cold. To me, they were cranky and not much fun and I gave up on him. Fortunately for Bryson, he didn't need me and the books sold millions of copies and achieved bestseller status.

Thunderbolt Kid, his memoir of growing up in Des Moines, Iowa in the 1950's, strikes just the right balance. It is a personal memoir loaded with historical context, facts and figures and it's funny as hell. It's been years since I've enjoyed his work and it is a welcome return. A perfect vacation read or one of those books you buy because your plane has been delayed indefinitely and you don't have to be a baby boomer to "get" it. Had I the time, I'm sure this could have been read in one sitting. Out in paperback, this is worth your time if you like memoirs or the author.

Dream City by Brendan Short

Remember Big Little Books? I had a few as a kid when they were probably on their last legs but there was something about them I loved. The heft of this small, almost square book and the stories inside appealed to me. They also appeal to Michael Halligan, who becomes obsessed with them, believing they are the key to undoing his life's unhappiness in Short's promising debut novel.

We meet Michael as a five year old and stay with him until he's reaches old age though in many respects, little changes. Michael remains obsessed with the Big Little Books and his strange desire to own every one ever made, including the elusive Trouble in the City of Dreams. The novel is peopled by some interesting characters, including Michael's brutal father and lonely mother and captures parts of the 20th century quite well. Thing is, it's sort of odd. I didn't love it, it didn't wow me; in fact, about a third of the way through the book, I thought about putting it down. It's not a knockout of a book in terms of style or craft nor is it terribly challenging but Short made me want to keep turning the pages and I'm glad I stayed with it. Now that he's gotten that painful first novel out of the way, I'll be interested to read what's next from him.

Happy Anniversary

I just realized that I started this dippy thing, I mean, this fabulous blog two years ago. My first post was August 11, 2006! If you know me at all, I'm sure you're surprised I even have had the discipline to maintain it two months, let alone two years.

It sure doesn't feel like dos anos but I'm glad I'm still at it and I appreciate those of you who have found your way here, told friends and have encouraged me.

Drink up, kids. Here's to me.

Below are my thoughts on a few of the 8 or 10 books I've read since I last posted a review. More to come. I promise.

Assisted Loving by Bob Morris

Sub-titled True Tales of Double Dating with My Dad, Bob Morris, a 40-something, style writer for the NYT, gives us the skinny on his father's love life and his own involvement in it, (which sounds creepy but isn't). Only a few months after Bob's mom passes away, his 80+ year old father, Joe, an irrepressible character of a guy, starts dating again and asks Bob for his help. Bob, gay, single, and a perpetual self-saboteur of his own relationships, grudgingly agrees and quickly finds his father is getting way more action than he is. After a long, mostly happy marriage to a women he truly loved and her long, lingering illness, Joe doesn't want to wait around to meet another woman. Bob not only has a hard time with his dad's fervor but is also rather jealous of his head-first approach to getting back into the dating pool

Joe, unforgivingly set in his ways as only an 80 year Jew can be, splits his time between a retirement community in Great Neck, where it's 3 women for every man, and Palm Beach, Florida, where the odds are even more in his favor, but has a hard time at first. He can't really describe to Bob what he wants in a woman, but he'll "know it when he sees it", which naturally drives Bob crazy. Eventually, Bob gets in the game, too, and suddenly, father and son have way more in common than might be comfortable to some. A quick read, it is sweet as candy and, at times, funny as hell.

The only downside is Bob's inability to get a grip on his relationship with his father. A number of times, he comes across as a petulant child, embarassed as a pissy teenager at his father eating with his mouth open or his choice in clothes. I kept waiting for Bob to grow up and realize how lucky he is to have this time and opportunity with his dad. Instead, he moans. A lot. Though I do admire the fact that he was honest portraying himself this way in the book, the repeated "woe is me" stuff slows the book down and could have been cut down some.

The Official Punk Rock Book of Lists by Amy Wallace and Handsome Dick Manitoba

This has got to be the dumbest, lamest thing I've ever seen. I'm sure I've said that before about any number of things (George W. as president, techno-sushi, sitcoms starring Jim Belushi) but, geez, I think I really mean it this time.

I didn't really want the book; I wanted to meet co-author and Dictators lead singer Handsome Dick Manitoba and, like so many others before me, say out loud, "Look at that Handsome Dick!" but the guys at the publishers booth said it was a mistake. He was never really scheduled to come to LA and, in fact, co-author Amy Wallace wasn't coming either because she just had back surgery. They gave me a copy/booby prize. I figured it might be fun in a sort of bathroom book kind of way. WRONG.

Many of the lists are the authors own creation and are either common knowledge (13 punks who OD'd, 7 punks who whipped it out or got naked), or are so stupid, I couldn't even believe it. I'm way too old to try to be punker-than-thou but seriously--108 Punk sub-genres? 'spaz punk'? 'bandana thrash'? 'Swedish enema punk'? C'mon! Or this little gem--Gilby Clark's 10 best punk rock solos! The dude from GnR? Go buy some Aqua-Net, Gilby. By the way, how's the new record coming? The only slightly cool thing about this hunk o' crap are the illustrations by Cliff Mott.

Spare yourself and go spend the 17 bucks on a Dictators record.

A few blogs worth a look

Work has been busy, we're redecorating the house and there has been some travel, of late. In other words, lots of lame excuses on my part for not being more up to date but since no one actually reads this thing, I'm cool with getting to the 5 or 6 books I've read this month (most of which I've really liked) when I have more time.

However, I've come across a few interesting book blogs I thought I'd pass on to the people who don't read mine.

First up, Lou Reads. I don't know a lot about her but we seem to have similar taste in some of the books we read and blog about. She's got a nice, breezy style and I appreciate her take on what she reads. Plus, it's called Lou Reads and I'm a sucker for a play on words that leads me back to the irascible Velvet Underground guitarist and singer.

And the colored girls blog: http://loureads.blogspot.com/

I haven't tried Miette's Bedtime Story Podcast yet but I LOVE the idea. When's the last time someone read to you? For the short story lovers and those who love to hear the written word, I dig it. Great mix of authors and stories--The Cask of Amontillado, Richard Brautigan, Roses for Emily, to name a few.

Start downloading at http://www.miettecast.com/


Last is Field-Tested Books. As they say on the site, "We had this notion that somehow through experimentation we could identify how our perception of a book is affected by the place where we read it." So they've collected some well-known writers (Andrei Codrescu, James Finn Garner), some up-and-comers and some scribes that are new to me and posted their pieces on what it meant to them to read Hunter S. Thompson in Bangkok or C. S. Lewis in New Jersey and many others. Kind of cool, kind of insightful.

To start your field work, go here http://www.coudal.com/ftb/index.php and then click Field-Tested Books on the right side.

On being a hater

There are plenty of books I've never made it through despite their reputation and certain authors whom I've found to be just awful even though they've been canonized as great masters. Maybe those books were "of their times" or I'm just not smart enough but mostly, I can only guess these books and authors just didn't speak to me the way others do.

Going through my reader after being on vacation, I found this terrific piece from the Times Online:
http://tinyurl.com/57korp

I thought this was great to see people own up to hating D. H. Lawrence or Dostoevsky or admitting to throwing a Patricia Cornwell novel off a boat.

Take that, Henry James!

The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein

Nobody really needs me to weigh in on this one--it was a Book Sense pick and then Starbucks picked it as a title for sale throughout their zillion stores and it's become a huge bestseller so you've probably heard of it or read it or thought about doing so. I say, hell yeah, do it. It's wonderful.

Often I'm too much of a snob to even read a blockbuster bestseller but don't let this conceit stop you. It ain't Tolstoy but I didn't set out to read Tolstoy (actually, I've never read Tolstoy, though I've nothing against him. I just haven't gotten to him yet). Still need an endorsement from ol' Reed Next? I cried in the first eight pages and devoured the book from there. 'Nuff said.

I will say I was reluctant to read a book with a dog as a narrator. A few years back, there seemed to be a mess of 'em--King by John Berger and the efforts of the protagonist of Dogs of Babel to make his dog talk, etc. It just seemed so gimmicky and every publisher was publishing their "talking dog" books. Feh! Sure, sometimes I think it'd be great if my dog could talk but that's part of her appeal, too. She can't speak and yet we can communicate in other ways and that's one of the reasons we're friends. That's probably why I absolutely loved Enzo and wish he were my friend.

There are times when the book gets a little melodramatic but these instances are forgivable. The relationship Enzo and Denny have is so honest and Enzo's own musings--his love of television, his desire for opposable thumbs, his belief in reincarnation--are just delightful. His perspective is so genuine and funny and though we'll never know what our dogs really think and feel, I want to believe Stein gets it right.