🏆🏆 – Page 7 – couldreads

Better late than never

Well I think it’s safe to say I’m running behind this week. For good reason! I’m in the middle of a huge project at work, my bathroom was being redone (which I realize has no tangible effect on my ability to read or write in a timely fashion) and, perhaps most importantly, the season finale of The Bachelorette was on (that’s a one-hour reunion, a two-hour finale and a one-hour “After the Final Rose” special; big obligation guys). But here I am, better late than never.

I picked up Mary Karr’s The Liar’s Club because of what I like to call a glitch-in-the-matrix moment: It came up, either online or in casual conversation, at least three times in the course of two weeks, so I figured the reading gods were all but asking me to pick it up. More importantly, it seemed to come up as one of those books everyone has read but I somehow missed the memo on (in fairness, The Liar’s Club came out in 1995; I had not so much availed myself of the memoir genre at that time, as I was 10.)

In any case, the book is praised for its combination of Mary Karr’s story—she’s a Texas-born problem child with a penchant for fights and a soft spot for her two alcoholic parents (including a deeply troubled mother)—and her writing; Karr is a poet as well as professional documentor of life’s calamities. Whatever the combo, it seems to strike a chord: The Liar’s Club was selected as one of the best books of 1995 by People, Time, The New Yorker and Entertainment Weekly (the latter perhaps not the best barometer of fine literature, but I’ll let it slide.)

All the facts fit to print

Major victory this week, guys. A book I’ve had on my shelf for no less than five years finally got read. This may not seem like a big deal, but when you buy books like I do—a ratio somewhere along the lines of three new acquisitions for every one completion—it’s nice to reassure myself that even though I may not get to that memoir I just had to buy until say, 2016, at least it will get read. Someday.

On to the disappointing news: A.J. Jacobs’ The Know-It-All wasn’t exactly worth the wait. Which is to say that, shockingly, a book documenting one man’s mission to read the entire Encyclopedia Britannica isn’t quite as riveting as you might think.

I have to admit, the concept intrigued me. Jacobs is (or at least was at the time of the book) an editor at Esquire, where he primarily focuses on pop culture news and the latest celebrity gossip. His goal with the Britannic: fill his brain with slightly more intellectual fare, and/or know everything there is to know and/or become the smartest person in the world. You know, the usual.

The quick and the dead

I am alive!

I know you were worried; to be honest, so was I. A six-day bender with two friends/former Marines in town for Fleet Week meant not only was I not getting the enough reading done—about 12 collective pages last week—but there were moments when I thought not enough brain cells would survive for me to ever read again. At least not anything outside of Goosebumps.

To add insult to injury, said friends were staying in my apartment which, as I’ve mentioned, is fairly covered in unread books, many of which interested said friends and spawned conversations that made me stare longingly at my bookshelf and wish I were curled up with a novel instead of arguing with bouncers in the Meatpacking District over the merits of jorts as a fashion statement (I am decidedly in favor; they, not so much.) Long story short, my brief sojourn into the life of an actually sociable person was exciting, but I see myself at no point in the immediate future becoming the kind of girl who changes bars as often as I currently change positions on the couch.

Fortunately for us all, this week’s book was…let us just say, not so much a challenge. I mean, what does one say about the Southern Vampire Mysteries—(they’re called the Southern Vampire Mysteries, for fuck’s sake)—the 11-and-counting titles upon which HBO’s True Blood is based. They’re vapid and simplistic and, only a hop, skip and a jump away from erotica. They take the intellectual capacity of a 9-year-old to read, or dog of above-average intelligence. They’re repetitive—about 25% of each book is devoted to retelling the events of the book before—and undeveloped. Oh, and they’re prettay prettay good.

It’s no mystery (just kidding, it is)

Well, I’ve been out of pocket for the last few days and I have to say Internet, I missed you. Not only do I feel very behind on my witty web memes and cute cat photos, but I’ve had nary a moment to engage with all my various personal marketing tools. I’ve barely even tweeted!

Unfortunately I wasn’t holed up all weekend because of a good book, but along the way I did happen to read one. So it’s okay, exhale, there’s still a review this week.

Faithful Place is the third in a series by author Tana French that centers on the undercover squad of a police department in Dublin (Ireland, guys). Although I would argue you should read the first two (mostly because Faithful Place was my least favorite), it isn’t necessary: The third book’s protagonist was but a periphery character in No. 2 The Likeness (though if you’re going to read The Likeness, you should read book No. 1, In the Woods, first. Those two are more closely related.)

Anywho, Faithful Place follows Frank Mackey, an undercover detective who hasn’t been to his hometown (ahem, Faithful Place) to see his family in upwards of 20 years, since he ran away from home at 18 or so. He’s drawn back to his old haunt when some locals find a suitcase that once belonged to his childhood sweetheart (with whom he had intended to run away, and who he’s always assumed blew him off at the last minute). What exactly happened to her, and their plans, is the rest of the story, none of which I intend to give away here.

The littlest gossip girl

Official-Book-Club-Selection-9780345518569

Everyone has a Kathy Griffin. That friend, you know the type, who’s effortlessly hilarious, quick with the comebacks, perfect for parties (if you, like me, prefer to bring guests who amuse but also mildly offend the hosts); also the kind of friend who after a few days together starts to grate on you. It’s no fault of theirs, just some people work better in smaller doses. Non-consecutive-day-doses.

Kathy Griffin’s memoir is a lot like her, and like that friend. It’s hilarious, fast-paced and often insightful, but by the end I was ready for a break.

I went into this book not knowing what to expect. Comedians can go both ways when it comes to the written word–sometimes, as is the case with Michael Ian Black, their books are perfection, just slightly more bizarre extensions of their routines (I don’t care what people say about Russell Brand, I find his memoir(s) far more amusing than he is in person). Other times, it doesn’t quite work. You find yourself missing their inflections, or well-placed pauses for laughter. Reading is an isolated activity, and stand-up is a group one. The two don’t always mix.

Griffin’s Official Book Club Selection (which, by the by, awesome title) benefits from Griffin’s stand-up style, which is more long-form storytelling than a series of witty one-liners. Those familiar with her stand-up (or Bravo show) will hear her voice in the writing, but the stories don’t suffer for not being performed on a stage. In fact, the book lets her go further than she probably would to a crowded room—a chapter about her brother, who she suspected of pedophilia (no joke), miiight not have made the best material for a night at Radio City Music Hall. On the page it comes across as insightful and acerbic; one gets the impression humor isn’t so much Griffin’s defense mechanism as it is a lens through which she (and any self-respecting cynic) views the world. In other words, the book isn’t all celebrity gossip and plastic surgery stories; just mostly.