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| 3.81
| 1,155
| 1954
| Oct 25, 2016
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liked it
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At the beginning of 2023, I realized I hadn’t read an actual book in almost 3 years: blame it on 2020, when the real world became more interesting tha
At the beginning of 2023, I realized I hadn’t read an actual book in almost 3 years: blame it on 2020, when the real world became more interesting than anything even the greatest of authors could dream up … I just couldn’t look away from that daily train wreck until, finally, I needed to… I decided to make myself read at least one book — turns out that was no easy feat, given that my entire worldview radically shifted over the last 3 years… Where even to begin? I decided on this one simply because it seemed safe: old enough that it probably wasn’t written for political purposes or a thinly veiled propaganda piece, early enough in the genre so as not to be salacious or written for shock value, and from a time when publishing a book still required good writing from authors. Oh, and speaking of authors, my parents knew this one—Walter Gilmour, the Alaska cop who coauthored the book with Leland Hale, was a longtime friend. (I still remember running into Gilmour in Anchorage with my parents when I was 11 years old—and doing my damndest to pretend I wasn’t eavesdropping as Gilmore described his upcoming book, “Butcher, Baker” due to be published soon…what I’d overheard that afternoon was so chilling that when two bright orange copies of Butcher Baker seemed to materialize in our house a few months later, I never had the courage to sneak a peek at the pages. But I never forgot it, either). So, after an extended hiatus from reading, this book seemed like a good place to start. If that feels like a lot of buildup for a 3-star book, believe me, that’s how it felt reading it. Here’s the deal: this is a highly readable, damn near unputdownable book (like I said - good writing was a still prerequisite for publishing a book back then). That’s due to Leland Hale, who proves himself from the very first page. He’s one of those increasingly rare kind of writers who’s such a natural, you’re never even aware of his presence: that is, you’ll never trip up on an odd detail or inconsistency, or get dragged through the dull quicksand of pointless filler prose—there’s absolutely nothing here to stop you, give you pause and make you wonder who the hell wrote this thing. Ahhhh, the absent narrator. Truly the sign of a great writer (imo anyway)—and all the more impressive here, where such a complex story could’ve easily devolved into over-detailed hell, but is instead relayed with tightly controlled writing and smooth simplicity. That said, maybe my 3-star review isn’t fair, because my problem isn’t so much with the book itself, but rather how it’s been marketed—and the marketing of the the subsequent documentaries (7 of them), films (2), TV episodes (countless), and podcasts about Robert Hansen that have sprung up over the last 30 years since Butcher, Baker was published. The thing is… I started to smell a rat with the true crime genre while reading Maureen Callahan’s American Predator: The … Most Meticulous Serial Killer about supposed serial killer Israel Keyes in 2019 — because after all that hype, media noise, and an entire 300-page book, the only provable thing about Israel Keyes was that he was a sloppy kidnapper, literally so shitty that he got caught after his first abduction (the “Most Meticulous Serial Killer of the 21st Century” indeed ...more |
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0
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not set
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Oct 18, 2023
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Kindle Edition
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| 0316451703
| 9780316451703
| 0316451703
| 3.72
| 12,102
| May 21, 2019
| May 21, 2019
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it was amazing
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JFC. You know those books that come along, disguised as brainless beach reads? The ones that look all innocent, but before you know it, have you swipin JFC. You know those books that come along, disguised as brainless beach reads? The ones that look all innocent, but before you know it, have you swiping away obnoxious notifications (buzz off, work/kids/friends!) from your screen because you’re too busy...reading? Know what kind of book I mean? Yeah, me either, because I haven’t come across one in a fuckin decade. I don’t know who Anna Pitoniak is, but I do know that it’s not nice to sink me—the fiction-hater who especially loathes spending a dime on bad books—for $17 and keep me up reading til 2AM on a weeknight. (Put a warning on that sh*t next time, Anna: it’s been two days and my friends and family want to know where I am). You can find a synopsis of Necessary People anywhere, so you don’t need me to get into it. Just ignore anyone who says this is the story of two friends who couldn’t be more different—face-value that nonsense, and pay attention to the subtle hints along the way, or you’ll miss the whole point. It’s not just that the writing is decent (fine, at times, it’s on the verge of brilliant) and the pacing, surprisingly good (okay, whatever, it snatches you up like a riptide, whisking you out to sea before you have time to wonder what the hell happened). It’s not even the plot, which is almost too perfect to be believable (okay, I’m bullshitting you now—the story is shocking in its “just-fucked-up-enough-ness” to be a little too real). Half the time, bad fiction gets away with being, well, bad because of lots of nifty tricks that readers miss, or simply don’t pause to question. But I can’t even get to that point in contemporary fiction anymore—I pull the trigger much sooner. For me, it’s that pesky suspension of disbelief thing: it’s almost never carefully navigated enough to get me past page 3 in 99% of today’s novels. Maybe that’s what got me from the first page of this book: the fact that Pitoniak never once takes it for granted that we simply believe her, which makes the story immediately engrossing, (un)comfortably familiar, at times anxiety-provoking, and ultimately, totally addictive. Because when you read this book and work your way through the throngs of narcissists, sociopaths, and fuckin certifiable psychopaths, it makes you do more than wonder if the whole world has gone mad as you try to figure out who’s good and who’s bad. It has you seeing all sorts of faces you recognize: those you’ve worked for, dated, lived with, loved. Perhaps more frightening than the recognition of those you know in this story are the glimpses you’ll inevitably catch—both past and present—of yourself: who you once were, who you were on the verge of becoming, and who you are now. And no matter in which characters you see yourself—the good ones, the bad ones, the worst ones—the unsettling part is when you close the book...because you’ll realize that back here in reality, no matter who you are or where you exist in the pecking order, your real life is populated with the twisted personalities depicted in this novel. You may not be one of them, but you know who they are (most of them, anyway)—you interact with them every day. >shudder< Welp. That’s the kind of thing that’ll keep you up at night, writing a goodreads review at 3AM with your thumbs while trying to unpack what the hell you just read. Brainless beach read, indeed. (Thank God it only happens once in a decade). Unnerving AF. Unputdownable. KICKED ASS. ...more |
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2
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Jul 30, 2019
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Aug 2019
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Aug 01, 2019
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| 1594634734
| 9781594634734
| 1594634734
| 4.04
| 294,509
| Jun 04, 2019
| Jun 04, 2019
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it was amazing
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I haven't read this yet - it doesn't even come out for another 6 months. Starting it at 5 stars anyway because it looks bad ass. :) I haven't read this yet - it doesn't even come out for another 6 months. Starting it at 5 stars anyway because it looks bad ass. :) ...more |
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Dec 16, 2018
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| 0143128752
| 9780143128755
| 0143128752
| 3.58
| 102,340
| Aug 18, 2015
| Aug 16, 2016
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it was ok
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Sigh. This is what happens when I try to give fiction another chance. I finished this over 24 hours ago and I'm still pissed off. I'm not even going t Sigh. This is what happens when I try to give fiction another chance. I finished this over 24 hours ago and I'm still pissed off. I'm not even going to waste time reviewing this. Everything you need to know is in this rad review. This novel is, at best, what a Gillian Flynn book would be if Flynn knew how to write. Don't get me wrong: Ottessa Moshfegh is a good writer -- great, even. But it's an unusual place to be in when you're reading an extremely well-written but horribly crappy book... It's like watching a shitty Bette Davis movie: the frustration of seeing all that talent squandered and wasted, and the urge to bitchslap whoever let it happen. If you're in the mood for something delectably dark and twisted, save yourself the $17 and skip this book. Watch Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? instead. You'll be glad you did. SUCKED. ...more |
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2
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Jul 25, 2018
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Jul 26, 2018
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Paperback
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| 1594206791
| 9781594206795
| 1594206791
| 4.49
| 87,445
| Sep 25, 2015
| Sep 29, 2015
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it was amazing
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Review coming....
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Sep 03, 2017
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| 0316356549
| 9780316356541
| 0316356549
| 4.23
| 15,380
| Aug 01, 2017
| Aug 01, 2017
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it was amazing
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The next time you find yourself shocked/stupified/wishing you could bitchslap some obnoxious Millennial, do yourself a favor and pick up a copy of Kat
The next time you find yourself shocked/stupified/wishing you could bitchslap some obnoxious Millennial, do yourself a favor and pick up a copy of Kate Fagan's What Made Maddy Run The Secret Struggles and Tragic Death of an All-American Teen. It won't make you want to bitchslap them any less, but at least you'll understand what the hell is wrong with them. Seriously. What Made Maddy Run profiles just one 19 year-old woman, but the story of her life, from its promising beginning to its tragic end, encapsulates the flaws and struggles of an entire generation. Fagan's book, which poses important questions about the pressures facing the youngest Millennials and discusses the state of mental health on college campuses, should be required reading for all incoming freshmen, their parents, and their professors--recognizing mental health issues in this famously non-communicative generation is their job. As for the rest of us? The book gives us a little insight into what makes these kids tick. You won't come away with a newfound respect (lol) for Millennials--kudos to Fagan, by the way, for making zero attempt to defend the Shittiest Generation--but at least you'll understand 20-somethings a little better. But I digress. Fagan's book explores the events leading up to the suicide of 19 year-old Ivy League track star Madison Holleran. What was it that drove a beautiful, brilliant, accomplished student and star athlete--and 6 others at her university that same year--to take her own life? The girl had everything, and a bright future was all but guaranteed. So. What the hell happened? Fagan does a lot of deep diving into possible factors leading to Maddy's suicide, from mental illness to the enormous amount of pressure that student athletes endure, but her main theory is one that rings so true that it's particularly alarming. Simply put, Fagan argues that Madison's generation of "digital natives" (those who never lived in a world without the Internet) are social media savvy as fuck, but offline, they lack basic social and emotional skills--i.e. empathy, introspection, self-expression, compassion, etc.--essential to human communication and interaction. In Madison's case, real communication was exactly what she needed, was incapable of asking for, and wasn't getting. To paraphrase the hell out of Fagan, think about Millennials like Madison this way: --Growing up with a screen in their faces has left these kids with almost zero capacity for critical thinking; instead, they function mindless and automated...just like the computers that raised them. The result is "a generation of world-class hoop jumpers...young people who know what they’re supposed to say, but not necessarily why they’re saying it." This is a group of young people who "have been taught what to think, but not how to think." --The majority of their socialization takes place online: text messages, Facebook, Instagram, etc., which keeps communication at an emoji-filled level of superficiality. Citing scholar William Deresiewicz, Fagan notes the problematic nature of that superficiality: "We have 968 “friends” that we never actually talk to; instead we just bounce one-line messages off them a hundred times a day. This is not friendship, this is distraction." --They're masters at perfecting their online personas but, as Fagan notes, the controlled image these kids present on social media "reduces [the] ability to reach one another when in distress." Keeping up appearances online is one thing, but these kids are often focused on maintaining that same facade offline. Gee. Never getting the space to be real and your social media self begins to interfere with your true self, all while masking potential problems beneath the surface... What could go wrong? --Because those "life marketing" social media skills come at the expense of real human interaction, these kids are at a disadvantage when real-life happens--especially when there are problems that require articulating emotions that run deeper than an "I'm-so-happy-life-is-so-perfect" Instagram post. Take all of those factors, along with that group of young people so completely incapable of coping, and consider what would happen in the case of a major life upset. In Fagan's book, that life upset was Madison Holleran's freshman year of college. (Seriously, does anything suck more than the first year of college?? UGH). If you can remember a world without the Internet, then you probably coped like the rest of us did: you cried to your roommate, got pancakes at 3AM, and finally got wasted friends until some of the stress abated. But this new generation is different. To understand Madison Holleran's freshman year, take out the human connection and the normalcy in expressing negative emotions that we had. Add in perfectionism, the grueling schedule of a student athlete, and mental illness. And remember the pressure to maintain a perfect social presence, both on and offline, even if it's masking serious inner turmoil. The result? A girl who had it all was suddenly facing the dark depths of depression alone, with no understanding of what she was experiencing, no ability to articulate what she was feeling, and a near-zero support system because her Instagram persona kept friends unaware of the depths of her depression. I suppose I couldn't put this down because I felt a brief pause in my daily rage at Millennials...I mean, it's not their fault that they were raised in front of screens their whole lives. (Actually, that's probably the reason they're like the human equivalent of a popup error message when asked to think outside the box to solve a fuckin problem--but whatever). It makes them no less irritating, but... ...at least in this case, the story of one digital native who had the potential to be great and lost it all touches you in some way. Fagan's depiction of Maddy's final moments was devoid of sensationalism, maybe even brought tears to my eyes >ahem<, and showed the reality of what these young people are truly robbed of when we teach them how to navigate the Internet but not life itself. So, extremely well-written, excellent piece of sports journalism, and while not exactly an uplifting read, an important one for understanding the next generation. Nicely done. ...more |
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2
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Aug 16, 2017
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Aug 16, 2017
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Aug 16, 2017
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Hardcover
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| 0374110425
| 9780374110420
| 0374110425
| 3.84
| 3,186
| Apr 05, 2016
| Apr 05, 2016
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it was amazing
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Did I read this book? No. Can David Duchovny really write? Meh. Probably. He was an English major at Princeton or something. Whatever. Don't care. Picke Did I read this book? No. Can David Duchovny really write? Meh. Probably. He was an English major at Princeton or something. Whatever. Don't care. Picked this up at a book signing Duchovny was doing a few weeks ago. I've lusted after that guy since I was 13, getting my book signed was supposed to be my chance—you know, my moment to elevate myself from book nerd to starfucker. Right? Not so much. Mr. “Yes-I'm-super-fuckin-hot-in-real-life-too” didn't so much as glance my way—he seemed to prefer to chat it up with my 7-year old instead. (Cock blocked by a 7 year-old. Goddammit). Chopped liver over here didn't want to tread on the bromance or anything...by all means, boys, keep talking, I'll just stand over here and look at...stuff. Whatever. Despite the brushoff, automatic 5 stars for being rad to my kid. :) Maybe I'll read the book some day, too. :) ...more |
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Mar 17, 2017
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not set
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Mar 17, 2017
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Hardcover
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| 0870707477
| 9780870707476
| 0870707477
| 4.41
| 116
| 2010
| Apr 28, 2010
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really liked it
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Does anyone want a signed copy of this book? I went to a Marina Abramović event last month and had her sign a couple of my books. The only problem is, Does anyone want a signed copy of this book? I went to a Marina Abramović event last month and had her sign a couple of my books. The only problem is, after years of following Abramović's work, meeting her in person shattered the fascination. She creeped me the fuck out more than anyone I've ever met -- ever. I don't even want the book in my fuckin house. So, my loss is your gain. :) Ping me if you want it. ...more |
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1
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not set
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Jan 05, 2017
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Jan 05, 2017
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Hardcover
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| 0356500152
| 9780356500157
| 0356500152
| 3.95
| 230,376
| Jan 14, 2014
| Jun 19, 2014
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it was amazing
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It takes odd circumstances -- the wind changing, hell freezing over, et. al. -- for me to bother with fiction anymore. Let's call November 2016 one of
It takes odd circumstances -- the wind changing, hell freezing over, et. al. -- for me to bother with fiction anymore. Let's call November 2016 one of those "odd circumstances," where I was so disgusted with reality that I couldn't even stand to read about it for fun: I dropped my beloved narrative nonfiction and memoirs mid-read and took up The Girl with All the Gifts instead. It was the right choice. And surprisingly, The Girl with All the Gifts turned out to be one of the best books I've read in years. Wait. What? I know. For me to read a novel is one thing. But for me to love said novel so much that I have this weird urge to hug the author? It's a strange universe indeed. So let's talk about what's going on in this book. First, ignore any official synopsis that you find online. Whoever wrote the blurb on Amazon should be fired, and all of the other official synopses simply sell this book short -- they're worst I've read for any book, ever. Since the publishers were too lazy to come up with compelling (or even relevant) copy to promote their author's work, here's a quick summary of what you need to know. The Girl with All the Gifts is the story of an institutionalized girl in post-apocalyptic England who develops an emotional bond with her female teacher. As the story unfolds, the bond between the two intensifies and morphs into the catalyst for a wild, unexpected plot twist. That same bond remains the girl's driving force throughout the novel, right up to the very last page. I'd call it all very touching and sweet, but the freaky-as-fuck zombies sprinting around, the humanity-destroying virus growing in a giant cocoon in central London, and the tribe of murderous child-monsters are just enough to keep it real. Anyway. Fiction, zombies and post-apocalyptic nonsense aren't my thing, but I have a weakness for good writers. And when authors are as talented as M.R. Carey, I apparently don't give a fuck what they're writing about because I devoured this book, zombies and all. I was shocked by the sheer quality of Carey's writing. I mean, if you're going to write a zombie apocalypse novel, why not crank it out according to formula and let your editor run spell-check while you move on to your next project? Not so with this author. Unlike so many fiction writers today (I'm looking at you, Pulitzer/Booker Prize winners), Carey actually bothered to make his zombie horror story both entertaining and well-written -- that's more than we can say for most novels published year in and year out. Seriously. Have a look. Our 10-year-old narrator, who has no concept of alcohol, describes weekly lessons with a drunken instructor. "Mr Whitaker is having one of those up-and-down days when he brings his bottle into class–the bottle full to the brim with the medicine that makes him first better and then worse. Melanie has watched this strange and mildly disturbing progress enough times that she can predict its course...He drinks the medicine ... His body relaxes, losing its tics and twitches. His mind relaxes too, and for a little while he’s gentle and patient with everyone... but he keeps drinking and the miracle is reversed. It’s not that Mr. Whitaker gets grumpy again. What he gets is something worse... He seems to sink in on himself in total misery, and at the same time try to shrink away from himself as though there’s something inside him that’s too nasty to touch." Okay, I know I've been out of the fiction world for a while, but I haven't read such a compelling description of alcoholism from a child's point of view since the opening chapters of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Jesus. Anyway. Let's keep going. As our child narrator describes the blooming branches in her teacher's hands, it becomes apparent that the girl's feelings are more than an attachment to a maternal figure. "The [buds] bulge right out from the stick, as though they’re being forced up from inside it. And some of them are broken; they've split in the middle and they're sort of peeling into ever-so-slender green lips and brackets." Well, I'm blushing. That's hot. But let's not forget my personal favorite, where a doctor researching the zombie-virus describes its effects as thus: "The fungus spreads through the ant’s body and explodes out of its head–a phallic sporangium skull-fucking the dying insect from the inside." I'm sorry, but "skull-fucking the dying insect from the inside"? With Orange Hitler dominating the news and lighting up his stupid Twitter feed 24-7, I really needed to read a sentence like that right now -- it just takes the edge off. (Like I said, I want to hug this author). I can go on. Hell, I could do this all day: "The remains of a four-by-four lies beside them, its front wheels gone, looking like a steer down on its knees and waiting for the bolt gun to be pressed to its head." "Of course, that's only a conceptual stone's throw from the thought that her survival is a side effect of mediocrity." "Houses she once aspired to live in flick past her, squat and dark like widows in a Spanish cemetery waiting patiently for the resurrection." (Holy fucking shit). "The pain from her damaged hands is now a persistent and agonising throbbing, as though she had an extra heart beating in each of her palms in very imperfect synchrony." "Ten feet away, hidden until that moment by the magazine although she’s not making any effort to conceal herself, is a girl. She’s tiny, naked, skinny as a bag of sticks. For a startling moment, she looks like a black and white photograph, because her hair is jet and her skin is pure, unmitigated white. Her eyes are as black and bottomless as holes drilled through a board. Her mouth is a straight, bloodless line." >shudder< "It’s like before the Breakdown people used to spend their whole lives making cocoons for themselves out of furniture and ornaments and books and toys and pictures and any kind of shit they could find. As though they hoped they’d be born out of the cocoon as something else. Which some of them were, of course, but not in the way they hoped." God! At this point, I don't care if M.R. Carey writes comic books or the copy on cereal boxes -- I'm a convert, and I'll read whatever this dude writes. Carey's writing reminds me of just why I fell in love with fiction in the first place, and why I spent years pursuing lit degrees: because when it's done right, fiction -- even post-apocalyptic zombie fiction -- can be a masterwork of the written word, a reflection of the human condition, and one of the highest, most beautiful forms of art. In short, I friggin loved this book, and I can't wait to reread it. KICKED ASS. ...more |
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1
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Nov 30, 2016
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Dec 02, 2016
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Dec 03, 2016
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Paperback
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| 1250041678
| 9781250041678
| 1250041678
| 3.66
| 319
| Feb 02, 2016
| Apr 05, 2016
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it was amazing
| Automatic 5 stars because I know this author. :) I'll write a real review when I'm done reading, but this much I know: memoirs about working at sex mus Automatic 5 stars because I know this author. :) I'll write a real review when I'm done reading, but this much I know: memoirs about working at sex museums are awesome. Period. ...more |
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Apr 05, 2016
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Apr 05, 2016
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Apr 05, 2016
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Hardcover
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| 1607747308
| 9781607747307
| 1607747308
| 3.88
| 369,661
| Dec 27, 2010
| Oct 14, 2014
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did not like it
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"Be careful whose advice you buy but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past fr
"Be careful whose advice you buy but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth." --Mary Schmich. I'm trying, Mary. I really am. Oh, screw it. This was the most stressful book I've ever read. I haven't been thrown into such a fucking frenzy of hatred since The Book Thief, and as with The Book Thief, I'm astounded that audiences en masse are embracing such codswollop. I'm baffled as to why this is a bestseller. My best guess is that Marie Kondo targeted the most materialistic generation in the history of humanity, and they've since passed the book on to their equally superficial, spiritually empty, and stuff-obsessed grandchildren, who have made the fucking thing go viral. At this point, we should just accept the fact that when our fellow countrymen gobble up 4 million copies of a book, it's garbage. Seriously. Stupid just hit a whole new level. But before I go tearing the book and its semi-literate fans to pieces, let's be fair: I'm not the intended audience. Other than the fact that I'm an unduly harsh critic of everything I read (I like to call that using my brain, but whatever), I already live minimally: I live in one of the rainiest cities in the country, but I will never buy an umbrella; except for 4 absolute favorites, all of my books are in the Cloud; knick-knacks make make me want to smack someone, the mismatched mess of an "eclectic" decorating style nauseates me, and I never buy anything unless I need it or love it. My house is almost always immaculate, and I don't do clutter. Excess "stuff" stresses me out to no end. As I read Kondo's book, I realized that I'm not the typical American drowning in an excess of useless crap. (Living in Europe and trading continents 4 times in your 20s can do that to a person). So why wasn't I nodding in agreement with her guide to decluttering? You mean it's not obvious? Come on, people! Good God. When Americans' capacity for critical thinking has reached the level of blindly adopting all things Marie Kondo/KonMari, we've got bigger problems than "too much stuff." Look. There's no such thing as the "KonMari method for tidying up." Her ideas should only strike you as new if you've ignored the folding techniques of every retail store you've ever entered, or you've never poked through a Feng Shui catalog. Saying that you follow the "KonMari method for tidying up" is like saying you follow the "Harpo method for finding your spirit" or the "Martha Stewart Omnimedia method" of crafting Christmas ornaments out of pinecones and pipe cleaners. There is no KonMari method, you idiots. This isn't some ancient Japanese art of decluttering put forth by one diminutive woman from Tokyo. Marie Kondo was manufactured by a Japanese publishing outlet, and KonMari isn't a method, it's a media company. I'm not bothered by the woman-as-the-face-of-a-media-company thing. It's been done before. (Oprah and Martha Stewart, anyone?) What disgusts me about this book is the deception behind it. I don't dig Oprah, but at least she got people talking about uncomfortable topics like sexual assault and racism, among other things. And at least Martha Stewart was candid about her perfectionism and relentless focus on her business functioning as coping mechanisms during an ugly divorce. But Kondo? This chick is packaging her brand of crazy as the path to joy. I mean, peddling your mental illness as the new normal? Damn, that's cold. Look. If you're an American with an abundance of junk, you're normal. You're fine. Marie Kondo wants you to have a problem with your junk so she can make money. Dealing with her issues doesn't make her rich -- selling you her psychosis does. Do you really believe Kondo found joy in decluttering when she says her cleaning obsession started at age 5, and was a "custom [she] maintained even after entering high school," as she "sat on the floor for hours sorting things"? If you're going to ignore the fact that Kondo chose cleaning over normal after-school activities--a job, calling boys, playing sports--it's easy to brush aside her mention of having a teenage breakdown because her room wasn't clean enough. (Um, that's not a happy kid). Path to joy indeed. But we don't need to psychoanalyze the early years. Kondo admits that her passion for tidying "was motivated by a desire for recognition from [her] parents," and that she "had an unusually strong attachment to things" rather than people. (Hi, sad). But is a childless 20-something/former souvenir salesperson, fresh out of an unhappy childhood, really the one you want leading you down the supposed path to joy? Think about what this chick is saying: "The purpose of a letter is fulfilled the moment it is received. By now, the person who wrote it has long forgotten what he or she wrote and even the letter's very existence." Jesus. That's a bleak outlook on life. But I guess Kondo is right. My grandma doesn't give a shit about the letters she wrote me--she's dead. Then again, I don't hold on to letters from grandma for her sake. "Aim for perfection." Jesus CHRIST. The only thing I hate more than knick-knacks and the eclectic is a living space created with "perfection" in mind. "Perfect" living spaces are stressful. They're goddamned mausoleums void of character and humanity. There's a little genius in a (small) organized mess. A tad bit of clutter is humanizing. There can be beauty in a bit of chaos. Hey, Marie, here's an idea: get outside more. Perfection is a fleeting organic moment: a newborn baby, a sunset, the Fibonacci sequence in the florets of a flower. It's not some state you declutter your way into. "Move all of your storage units into your closet. This is where I usually put steel racks, bookcases, and cupboards or shelves, which can also be used to store books." This. Right here. This is exactly why I found this book so goddamned irritating. Passages like this made my immaculate and clutter-free city apartment feel like it wasn't good enough. Take my bookcase. I hate bookcases. I view them as a way of storing junk, and in my 30-something years, I've only seen one bookcase done well. But I have a bookcase for my 6 year-old. (No goddamn way am I going to put his books on the Cloud, giving him another excuse to stare at a screen). I was never bothered by the bookcase until I read Kondo's book, but now I can't wait until we can throw the damn thing away. And moving it out of sight will magically make me hate it less? Yeah, no. This is my son's house, too. Sorry, Marie, I'm not going let your book make me miserable about a kid's bookcase. I'll go back to not noticing it. Thanks. Never, ever tie up your stockings. Never, ever ball up your socks. God! Who the fuck cares about how they fold their socks? I'd love to scribble all over Kondo's walls just to see what she'd do. "Transform your closet into your own private space, one that gives you the thrill of pleasure. Heh. An organized closet sparking a "thrill of pleasure"? I'd recommend another human being or a battery-powered...never mind, get your "thrill of pleasure" wherever, it's not my business. "When you stand in front of a closet that has been reorganized...your heart will beat faster and the cells in your body buzz with energy." Isn't it weird that Kondo describes an organized closet with words generally associated with falling in love/physical intimacy? Well, that's...fucked up, but whatever. I had an altogether different experience. When I upgraded to a new apartment a few months ago, I organized my hall closet. Afterwards, I stood there wondering if I'd accomplished anything or just wasted a bunch of time. When my 6 year-old wandered up and, near tears said, "When you clean, we don't get to play," I went ahead and decided on the latter. This is the routine I follow every day when I return home from work. First, I unlock the door and announce to my house, 'I'm home!' Picking up the pair of shoes I wore yesterday...I say, 'Thank you very much for you hard work,' and put them away...I put my jacket and dress on a hanger, say 'Good job!'...I put [my handbag] on the top shelf of the closet, saying 'You did well. Have a good rest.'" Um. She's talking to her stuff. What the f%$#?!?! And why are Americans so quick to dismiss Kondo's talking to inanimate objects as some cultural quirk? No one talks to their shit in Japan unless they're certifiably nuts. "The best way to choose what to keep and what to throw away is to take each item in one's hand and ask: 'Does this spark joy?'" LOL, the "wisdom" of people under 30. Anyone who has kids (or a general understanding of life) knows this is fucking ridiculous. I mean, give me a break! Going all slash and burn on your life, save for items that "spark joy?" I wonder what people who've lost everything in a fire would say about that? I'm sure people who survived major disasters would *totally* enlighten you about the *joy* sparked from their stuff. Obviously, if your mountain of junk makes you miserable, your stuff owns you. But if you Kondo-ize your house until you only have things that "bring you joy," your reduced pile of stuff still owns you. Face it. If you're looking for joy in the material, you don't need Marie Kondo--you need to reevaluate your life. Okay, fine. Maybe I'm being unfair. People are indeed affected by their environment, and decluttering can feel satisfying, even cleansing. But look who's telling you how to go about it: a chick whose childhood obsession with cleaning came from trying to please others, whose sole work experience includes selling junk at shrines, and whose descriptions of "joy" include rules, repetition, ritual, and talking to inanimate objects. Yeah. They make medication for that. At this point, I should pick up Marie Kondo's book and ask myself whether it sparks joy. Well, no, it actually sparks rage. To the trash with it, then! SUCKED. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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not set
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Jan 20, 2016
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Hardcover
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| 0008139571
| 9780008139575
| B00TD9BAU8
| 3.86
| 3,807
| Jan 2015
| May 26, 2015
|
it was ok
|
A French journalist creates an online identity to talk to jihadists, but unwittingly attracts the attention of a crazed ISIS fighter? Sign me up! I've
A French journalist creates an online identity to talk to jihadists, but unwittingly attracts the attention of a crazed ISIS fighter? Sign me up! I've stalked those ISIS idiots on Twitter for more years than I care to admit, and non-fiction about crappy countries is totally my thing. This book should be right up my alley! Right? Sigh. Goddammit. In the Skin of a Jihadist is just an extended version of Anna Erelle's NY Times/Daily Mail/Guardian articles promoting her book. If you've read any of those--hell, even if you just skimmed a summary on Buzzfeed--voila!, you've got the entire story. You can skip the book, because in 240 pages, there's not one detail that Erelle hasn't already published online. Well, that's irritating. But In the Skin of a Jihadist has bigger problems than being a longform version of Erelle's old web articles. The real issue is that despite its intriguing premise, this book is boring. (I survived Critical Theory in grad school, so "boring" isn't a word I toss around lightly). It's so lifeless that it damn near rivals Waiting for Godot/Moby Dick/anything by Jane Austen or Alessandro Manzoni, etc. as the dullest sh!t in print. A contemporary book so monotonous that it sparks flashbacks of the bad classics? Yikes. And it gets worse. I get that Erelle is a journalist who wants to be taken seriously. I also get that she wants her subject matter to be taken seriously. But when you invent a fake identity to pursue a story, there goes my ability to consider you a serious journalist. As for the story itself? Catfishing some waste-of-life pussy ISIS fighter? Meh. I think I saw that on MTV once. With her dubious professional ethics, near-zero credibility as a journalist, and a flimsy story, Erelle had nothing to lose when she started writing this. She could have written anything. Why she didn't drop the journalism shtick and focus on breathing life into her corpse of a book is beyond me. But no, she stuck to the (not very exciting) facts and called it good. Lame. Come on, Anna! Where's your creativity? I've got a couple of ideas to make your book less of a chore to read. See if you can work these in by the time the second edition rolls out: Tell the real truth: You know what I mean. Spill it. Was the ISIS guy hot? Were you ever attracted to him? Were there any late night phone calls that your boyfriend didn't know about? Speaking of your boyfriend, he sounds hot. Can you tell us more about him, other than the fact that he sits in the corner brooding? Thx. Embellish: As noted above, your professional integrity went out the window when you created a fake identity. You're no different than those of us who Twitter-stalk these assholes behind a fake avatar image, so we really only half believe you anyway. Well, run with it! Tell us some sweet little lies and liven up this party! Say you were toying with the idea of converting to Islam but a new-found love for Scientology stopped you. Say that you actually catfished 5 ISIS fighters, 2 of their wives, 1 of their slaves, and a few of their sheep. Describe your pet unicorn. Whatever. It doesn't matter. Just make something up! If it's interesting, we'll pretend we believe it. Criticize someone, anyone, anything, for fuck's sake! Why be objective when you can engage readers with your opinions about the situation you created with your ISIS bachelor? There's already a fatwa against you, so why the fear of stirring the pot? Go ahead, tell us why you think Islam sucks -- we can handle it. Or tell us how ISIS fighters think they're tough shit, but compared to the hotties in the Légion Étrangère or the Japanese during the Rape of Nanking, they're really just a bunch of whiny little girls. Better yet, make fun of your terrorist beau for being a fucking moron. Come on, tell us how in the hell a 38 year-old was dumb enough to be fooled by your fake identity, and then mock the hell out of him! I mean, being catfished when you're old enough to remember Prodigy and AOL? HAHAHAH!! DUMBASS!! LOL! (See how easy it is, Anna?) Voice an opinion! Just do something! And make it count. Add some personality. How about French-ifying the text a little? You know, call the ISIS fucker a tête à claques, drop a few meaningless Foucault and Sartre quotes, and remind us of the superiority of France as you blow smoke in our faces with disdain. (God I love French people). See? I like your book better already. Revise the "purpose." Yeah, yeah, yeah, your selling point is that your fake identity gave you precious insight into how ISIS manages to lure young European women to Syria. But come on, that's about the lamest attempt of all to legitimize your book. Yes, it's shocking when seemingly normal girls disappear from their comfortable lives, only to pop up on Twitter in a niqab, married to a hairy stranger, and posing with Kalashnikovs in war-torn Raqqa. But "How does it happen?" Come on, really? Um. It's called brainwashing, and teenagers are the easiest targets. It's not complicated: teenagers are vulnerable, they long for a sense of purpose, they romanticize dumb things, and they make stupid decisions. And when their parents give them unfettered access to a device that connects them with the world... Well, gee, what could go wrong? When you're 15 and the hot ISIS fighter you met on Twitter tells you that you're "different" and "special," that means something. When that same stud tells you'll get to Something tells me you already knew this, Anna. Find better material. When it really comes down to it, I don't care about some dumbass jihadist in Iraq. Call me when a bomb falls on his head. Or not. I don't care. This whole war thing has been going on, ad nauseam, since the beginning of time, and there's absolutely nothing new or noteworthy about ISIS...well, other than their propensity for blowing themselves up in their quest for world domination, but you can't expect a Milennial terrorist to know that "No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. You win by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country." But even laughing at ISIS gets old. If you really want to get my attention, use your fake identity something interesting. Infiltrate a group of young French women planning to move to Syria, and give us the scoop on what hell they're thinking. Or, trick a local imam into dating you and tell us what happens. Better yet, see if you can become 2nd wife to that ass-clown Anjem Choudary and write a salacious tell-all. Or, if Anjem doesn't pan out, become wife #4 to some devout Muslim/secret polygamist living in Paris and let us know how it goes. See what I'm getting at here? Save the dry reporting for your articles. You're hardly a journalist in the book, so give us the goddamn goods or go home. Oh well. At least I didn't hate it. Meh. Whatever. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Jan 04, 2016
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Jan 17, 2016
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Kindle Edition
| ||||||||||||||
| 1594206589
| 9781594206580
| 1594206589
| 3.60
| 639
| Jun 24, 2014
| Jan 26, 2016
|
it was amazing
| It's taken me 6 months to process what I've read here. Some thoughts/disclaimers before I even start: --I've been deleting ARC offers from publishers fo It's taken me 6 months to process what I've read here. Some thoughts/disclaimers before I even start: --I've been deleting ARC offers from publishers for years; this is the only one I've ever accepted (don't ask why, it's a long story) --I can never fairly review anything this chick has written, given that my review of Betancourt's memoir was a colossal f*ck up, and given that meeting her in person had me do a complete 180 --I hate fiction, and I particularly loathe historical fiction about eras of human tragedy. I also have a special hatred for magic realism. --Not only does this book have everything I can't stand--historical fiction and magic realism--it also covers a historical period that makes me want to vomit: there was something especially evil about the Dirty War. The messy torture, killing and disappearing of 20-somethings for having the wrong political views, and kidnapping their newborns and passing them off as the children of military families? It makes the clean, systematic extirmination during the Holocuast seem more merciful in some ways. I'd rather read 20 Holocaust novels than 1 about the Dirty War -- that's how badly I hate this topic. --I was able to get around the hatred for historical fiction/magic realism/the Dirty War for a couple of reasons. 1) I fell for the bullshit non-analysis factor of "seeing yourself" in the story: the characters in the story frequent my old stomping grounds in Connecticut and NYC, down to my old block and the church next door to my building on W. 14th Street in Manhattan; the single mother's relationship with her son probably got me, too, especially the mother happening to hear a child psychologist on the radio. Freaky shit coincidences, total non-analysis, but it kept me going. 2) I figured out early on what the author is doing -- I'm guessing her intent here isn't to have you curl up with a book and be a passive reader. I think it's pretty obvious that there's something else, something way larger and profound going on between the lines here. --I didn't hate this book at all. In fact, I loved it and respect what (I think) Betancourt has done. She may have been a politician, but there's no question that this chick is a writer, 100%. And a damn good one. --I think a lot of this book's lukewarm reviews on GR are from people who haven't had an analytical thought since 9th grade English. I may have to rip into those people a little, but I'll try to be nice-ish... But I'll get to that later... Review coming...just need a few more days to organize my thoughts. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jan 11, 2016
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Jan 25, 2016
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Jan 11, 2016
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Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 1614520011
| 9781614520016
| 3.72
| 11,012
| 2011
| 2011
|
did not like it
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In 70 pages, Three Cups of Deceit managed to destroy one of my heroes--and I don't mean Greg Mortenson, whom the book intends to demonize. Instead, th
In 70 pages, Three Cups of Deceit managed to destroy one of my heroes--and I don't mean Greg Mortenson, whom the book intends to demonize. Instead, the fallen hero here is author Jon Krakauer, thanks to this ebook, which left me queasy with disgust. We all know that it's nothing new for me to hate an author, but Three Cups of Deceit is different because I've been an ardent Jon Krakauer fan since I was 17. When 20 years of admiration are undone in a 70-page ebook, it's is a weird place to be. When Krakaeur appeared on 60 Minutes in 2011 accusing Greg Mortenson of 5 different types of fraud, I did what most probably did: I assumed Krakauer was right and shut off the TV. But I didn't follow the scandal, or Greg Mortenson's subsequent fall from grace. I bought Three Cups of Deceit last year because I love Krakauer's writing, not because I cared about the content. Now that I’ve finally gotten around to reading it, I do care about the content—and I don't think I'll pick up another Jon Krakauer book...ever. What the hell happened in 70 pages that managed to turn me against my longtime favorite author? To answer that, we have to look back on Krakauer's writing over the last several years. After writing two of the greatest adventure stories of the 20th century, Krakaeur shifted dramatically. It started in 2003, when he swapped adventure writing for expose-style journalism. That shift in subject also marked a change in tone: his curiosity-driven prose morphed into rage-driven narratives. Yet Krakauer's anger fit the topics he was covering. Shock and outrage work well in Under the Banner of Heaven and Missoula. And though Krakauer's anger borders on crampy adolescent whining in Where Men Win Glory, his rage is understandable, perhaps even relatable. But there's something unsettling about the depth of Krakauer's anger in Three Cups of Deceit. Turn to any page, and you'll find barely-contained fury. But instead of fitting with the text, that fury undermines Krakaeur's credibility: the book doesn't read like an investigation, but like a screeching demand for justice by an author out for blood and hell-bent on revenge. What gives me the right to make such a claim, other than the fact that it's apparent on every page? Well, I've been reading pissed-off Jon Krakauer books for a long time. I know his style, and I recognize his shortcomings as a writer. He's particularly gifted at persuasion, which he achieves by intertwining facts with subtle plays on readers' emotions. That makes for effective storytelling, but it's shitty journalism. And it's particularly shitty in this book, where Krakauer distorts the truth, and then data dumps in order to pass off his emotions as facts. Trying to separate facts from an author's feelings is hard, not to mention irritating. But let's see if we can give it a shot anyway. Fact 1: Krakauer has an integrity / credibility problem Before we start, let's remember that Krakauer isn't an academic, or a formally trained researcher or journalist. (He got an Environmental Studies degree in 1976, and he worked for Outside Magazine for a while). He's just some guy who writes books based on research gleaned from surfing the Internet. The lack of training and credentials is important, because it calls into question Krakaeur's competence. This is an important consideration, as many of Krakauer's sources in Three Cups of Deceit have accused him of distorting facts, twisting words, and purposefully misquoting them. Fact 2: Greg Mortenson doesn't know how to run a nonprofit The only fact in Krakauer's verbal slaughter of Greg Mortenson is this: Mortenson never should have been in a leadership position at the CAI. *That's it.* Mortenson was a visionary, a brilliant fundraiser, and excellent at executing projects, but he was notoriously bad at planning, project management/follow-up, staffing, and bookkeeping. He lacked the necessary experience to be in a leadership position, but he stayed in that role because he created the charity. Krakauer says that "to a number of people, Mortenson's [irresponsible work performance] was more pathological than quirky." (Whoa! That sounds serious...and ominous! Who are these mystery people? Have you got a direct quote? Wait a minute....opinion stated as fact! A claim you can't prove, presented as truth! Good one! You almost got me there, Jon!) Well, that's stupid. Mortenson's inability to plan, his disregard for rules, his lack of followup, and his obliviousness to financial realities sound like classic symptoms of adult ADHD--that's essentially a learning disability, and hardly indicative of some evil embezzling mastermind. In any case, Krakauer proves nothing. Let's get back to our fact-hunt. Fact 3: Greg Mortenson repaid the CAI and stepped down from its board An investigation by the Montana Attorney General faulted Mortenson not for fraud, not for misappropriating or embezzling funds, but for misusing funds--aka, sloppy bookkeeping, aka a screwup. That's it. Mortenson reimbursed the CAI, resigned from the board, and resumed his charity work. Isn't that kind of open and shut? Wow. It seems Krakauer wrote himself into a frenzy over something pretty...minor. Fact 4: Three Cups of Tea isn't a literary fraud Few things make me giddier than a phony writer being outed, but Three Cups of Tea was never selling fiction as truth. (Krakauer would say my assertion "demonstrates how difficult it is to correct a false belief after...having made an emotional investment in that belief." OMG, manipulative jerk). So what of Krakauer's accusation that entire sections of Three Cups of Tea were fabricated? Um. Duh? I mean, come on, Jonny-boy, you're not telling me you believed that whole kidnapped-by-the-Taliban bit, are you? Oh no...you didn't fall for the Mother Teresa tale, did you? Christ, Jon, you should have been able to spot bullshit on the first page! I mean, aren't you supposed to be smart or something?? I'm not siding with Three Cups of Tea out of some emotional investment (I have none), but because it was obvious from page 1 that the story was largely horseshit. It was so glaringly obvious that in 2006, I couldn't even get past the first chapter for months: the "Christ-like figure descending the mountain" imagery set off my b.s. detector big time. And that was little 26 year-old, pre-graduate degree me, so spotting bullshit clearly didn't require expertise or careful reading. When I finally read the introduction, where co-author David Oliver Relin explains that he took creative license because Mortenson was impossible to track down, I was finally able to read the book. Um....an author admitting in the 2006 intro that he used literary license? Uh....the publishing process itself, which requires stories to change again to meet editors'/publishers' requirements? Humor me, Jon: How is that a scandal? How is that fabrication? Hey, Jon? It's not Relin's fault you fell for the fantastic claims in the book. It's your fault. You may be an engaging writer, but you're a bad reader. Fact 5: No good came from Three Cups of Deceit Here's the result of Krakauer's bad reading and irresponsible reporting: the reputational hit cost the CAI millions in donations, which meant that countless Afghan and Pakistani girls lost the chance to get an education. Closer to home, the stress from Krakaeur's expose gave Mortenson a heart attack (literally), Mortenson's 12 year-old daughter tried to kill herself, and Mortenson's coauthor David Oliver put his head on some railroad tracks. WOW! Taking down a man, his daughter, his life's work, a charity, the benefactors of that charity, and a fine writer, all in 70 pages? That's got to be some kind of record. Clearly, awesome stuff happens when a personal vendetta is the driving force behind your book! And I suppose Mortenson should be the one to bear the blame for all of it? Not Krakauer, though, right? I mean, don't shoot the messenger...right? Well. Maybe we need to rethink that philosophy, especially when the messenger is a goddamned jerk. Yes, I'm pointing the finger at Krakauer. Yes, I'm saying he's responsible for the negative repercussions of his book. Fact 6: Jon Krakauer was one of my favorite writers.... ...but now I want to tell him off. I'd say: Hey, Jon, I get you. Seriously. There are 3 things unleash the crazy in me: people who lie, authors who try to bullshit me, and people who mess with my money. You think (but can't prove) that you got all 3 offenses from Mortenson in one fell swoop. Believe me. I feel your rage. But here's the thing, Jon. You're not an untouchable, or somehow exempt from the rules because you're a best-selling author. Writers--all of us--have some degree of responsibility for what we write. If you were really concerned about misdeeds by Mortenson, you could have pursued the legal route. But you didn't. You wrote a sensationalist, manipulative ebook in which you let your rage distort the facts, while you tout your assumptions as the truth--and you did it not out of concern for the CAI or its donors, but because you wanted revenge. Even worse? Not only do you refuse to accept responsibility for *any* of the tragic fallout from your book, but you've managed to convince yourself that what you've done in Three Cups of Deceipt is noble. That's cowardly and immature. And sick. Fact 7: Why I'll (probably) never read another book by Jon Krakauer I think I only ever liked Krakauer's books because there was something so familiar about them. (No, I'm not projecting--I'm recognizing similarities). I know what it's like to show the world how tough you are by pouring rage into dangerous endeavors and extreme sports. And I've lived the pattern Krakaeur describes: convincing yourself that brooding and obsession fuel good research; allowing frenzied rage to drive your quest for the truth; adopting the conviction that exposing a liar is noble and good. The problem with rage-fueled moralistic quests is that we all misfire at some point, and the wrong people get hurt. Krakauer misfired big time here, and he doesn't even see it. I asked Krakauer last week if Three Cups of Deceit was worth it, despite the tragic fallout. He looked me in the eye and said, "Yes, absolutely" before launching into some explanation. His response was enough to make my flesh crawl. I stopped listening. Krakauer's response unsettled me because I realized that he's writing from a dark place. And he's in deep. This book isn't just Krakauer's compulsive hunger to tear down someone else. It's Krakauer's attempt to undermine your faith in someone who was actually doing good. Krakauer wants you to join him in that dark place where he resides. After all, dark places are no fun when you're all alone. That's horrible. After 20 years of championing Krakauer, I now feel like the gullible reader, taken in and emotionally manipulated by my favorite writer. But let's give credit where credit is due. At least Krakauer is talented enough to perfectly articulate how that feels: "It's difficult to correct a false belief after people have made an emotional investment in that belief being true. When our heroes turn out to be sleazebags self-deception is easier than facing the facts." When our heroes turn out to be sleazebags... Yeah, screw this guy. SUCKED. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Nov 30, 2015
|
Nov 30, 2015
|
Nov 30, 2015
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ebook
| |||||||||||||||
| 043997772X
| 9780439977722
| 043997772X
| 4.23
| 16,620
| Oct 01, 2003
| unknown
|
it was amazing
|
Update: 17 March 2017 I've been meaning to update this for months. Original review has been deleted / changed from 1 to 5 stars / I'm an a-hole, etc. I Update: 17 March 2017 I've been meaning to update this for months. Original review has been deleted / changed from 1 to 5 stars / I'm an a-hole, etc. I took major issue with my (then) 6 year-old bringing the Captain Underpants books home from the school library. I couldn't understand why any public school would even have these books: the main characters are disrespectful little sh*ts who mock their teachers and classmates and get in trouble all the time. Oh, and half the words in the book being purposely misspelled made me want to smash something. I may have said something in my original review about this being the kind of book that turns kids stupid. Well, whatever. I took my kid to a Dav Pilkey book signing, and, well, fine, I admit it, I was wrong. Pilkey himself was a complete class act, a total natural with the kids. He quizzed them on elements of the novels and gave out hand drawn posters to the winners. He also prepared an animated slideshow telling the story of his novel being rejected by publishers hundreds of times until someone finally accepted it -- it was a really sweet lesson of persevence for the kids. I also liked that he talked openly about having ADHD, and explaining that while the condition made him a sucky student, it also made him a great comic book author, which led him to creating Captain Underpants. He also said that he based the two main characters on himself as a gradeschooler, and like the characters in his books, he wasn't bad at all, but bored by traditional school and labeled an underachiever because of his ADHD. All of this is important stuff for kids today to hear. Oh, and Pilkey should be credited for covering these heavy topics in a way that kept the kids engaged, laughing, and happy. My kid and I somehow ended up ass-last in the book signing line, and an hour later when it was *finally* my kid's turn, Pilkey treated my son as if he were the first kid he'd seen all day. The guy talked to my 7 year old about writing books, answered his questions about the novels, and signed and drew a personalized picture in every single novel in the stack we'd brought to the table. Sigh. Like I said, I'm an a-hole. These books won't turn your kid stupid. Children recognize and laugh at the misspelled words, and correct them as they read. The main characters do and say things that young readers recognize as over the top or inappropriate, and they scold the characters as they crack up laughing. Anyway, the books are harmless, they bring a lot of joy to kids, and the author seems like a really nice person. Disregard my original review. And if you're reading, Dav, sorry about that. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Oct 04, 2015
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Oct 04, 2015
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Paperback
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| 3.37
| 47,455
| Aug 25, 2015
| Sep 01, 2015
|
it was ok
|
This book was advertised on my Kindle Fire, so I read the first few pages and downloaded it. I didn't realize at the time that it was published by Ama
This book was advertised on my Kindle Fire, so I read the first few pages and downloaded it. I didn't realize at the time that it was published by Amazon. Well, for once, I'm not mad at the author. Instead, I'm furious with Amazon, and whichever of its self-proclaimed "editors" worked on this book. This is precisely why you don't let a metrics-obsessed e-store publish novels: the real editors escape as fast as possible, and the ones left behind are clearly unqualified. That ends up doing a huge disservice to authors, and to readers who pay for this shit. I wasn't expecting The Good Neighbor to go beyond a Shutter Island level of literacy, but it never even got that far. I'd say it's the most amateur attempt at a novel I've ever seen, but it's not--it just needed about 6 more rounds at a writing workshop before being submitted anywhere for publication. And I don't think any of this is the author's fault. Look. Bad writing happens. It's just fact. But aren't editors supposed to help authors not sound like idiots? Isn't that part of the job? Because look at how irritating it can be when editors are asleep at the wheel: --After being hit on the head, our narrator explains that she'd "suffered a concussion, a mild form of brain injury." I know what a concussion is, thanks. Or how about this? --"Eris threw yogurt in the bender. Then she chopped up bananas and turned on the blender." A 3rd grader could figure out how to make these sentences read better. Oh, and the narrator will finish that one smoothie on two separate occasions on the same page. Didn’t anyone at Amazon bother to proofread this? And don’t get me started on characters, places, and movement. --When characters get upset, their features "darken." Don’t believe me? “Johnny’s eyes darkened.” “Todd Severson’s face darkened.” “Her eyes darkened.” “He blinked, his eyes darkening.” “Did his eyes just darken in the mirror?” When their features aren't “darkening,” our two main characters show affection by wrapping their arms around each others’ waists: --“He wrapped his arms around my waist, both of us gazing in the mirror,” ; “He wrapped his arms around my waist from behind,” (that’s hot) ; “He wrapped his arms around my waist to steady me” ; “I wrapped my arms around his waist. I needed to feel his solidity.” And it’s not just these two – even the neighbors do it: “He stepped back…wrapping his arm around his wife’s waist.” I mean, this is just silly. --The Hispanic characters speak exactly two words of Spanish at various times throughout the book: “Dios mio.” Then they break into English again. Well, bad stereotypes do make for great stock characters. Or Looney Tunes characters. (But I'm pretty sure Speedy Gonzales speaks more Spanish than that). --The lawn of every house where children reside is covered with toys and a bicycle with training wheels. There is no variation here at all—ever. --Our narrator has some odd need to tell us how everything smells, leading me to think that she has an olfactory disorder, or that her friends are a smelly bunch living in a really stinky place: “He’d smelled different when we’d arrived at the cottage.” ; “The air smelled faintly of rosewater.” ; “ She smelled of patchouli and lip gloss” ; “She smelled like baby powder” ; “He smelled mildly ruddy” (?????) ; “She smelled of clove cigarettes and wet wool.” Fuck me. Even when I was pregnant and could smell a rotting apple core at the bottom of a trash can six blocks away, I didn’t smell as many things as this narrator does. This is clearly a case of the author taking the "show don't tell," advice from kindergarten ("describe the senses!") a little too literally. So where were the fucking editors? Why weren’t they catching these things? Even worse than ignoring the sloppy repetition, the editors clearly didn’t take a stand in places where the writing is simply, undeniably . . .bad. It made for so many utterly crap-tastic sections that I was laughing my ass off through a majority of the novel: --“Autumn was showing off, but sooner or later, autumn would turn into winter, and the trees would lose all of their leaves.” This is easily the worst sentence I’ve read in print in ten years. Hysterical. --“I could almost see the flames reflected in his eyes.” Haha. No, you couldn’t. I know what you were going for by writing this, but it’s just bad. DELETE. "Haven’t you heard the saying a woman is like a tea bag, you never know what she’s made of until you dip her in hot water?” LOL! --"Dr. Johnny McDonald, a dashing bachelor..." I'm pretty sure the term "dashing bachelor" should never be in print outside of a Harlequin romance novel. And someone named Johnny McDonald described as a "dashing bachelor" is irresistibly funny. --“Halfway through the meal, the doorbell rang, a melodic ding-dong reverberating through the house.” Because there’s just...nothing quite like a...melodic ding-dong. These tidbits were so hilarious that I'd recommend the book for the laugh factor alone. But is that really the goal of a mystery novel? To have readers laughing at the bad writing? I think not. So, again, where was the editor? Why wasn't anyone telling this chick to kill her darlings and fix this stuff?? It gets even more maddening. I read somewhere that our author likes Daphne du Maurier. Well, that's nice. While I appreciate the many instances in the novel where Banner pays homage to du Maurier—the fire, the charred copy of Rebecca in the ashes, the young woman taken in by the “dashing bachelor” (gag), the rhododendrons, the creepy dilapidated shack by the water, et. al.—the attempt to imitate her is just...lame. (Anyone's attempt at writing like du Maurier would be lame--that's why she's a legend and the rest of us are mediocre). Because how did du Maurier accomplish Maxim’s “big reveal” in Rebecca? Easy. Maxim confesses because he has to—he thinks he’s about to be caught—and what follows is one of literature's greatest plot twists. I get that Banner tried to have a character do a Rebecca-esque 180 on us in The Good Neighbor, but unsurprisingly, it's a flop: the the bad guy is only mildly surprising, and the “big reveal” happens for no reason, with no twist, just because the book has to end somewhere. A good editor would have explained to Banner that any attempt to write like du Maurier is bound to fail, and would have had her rewrite the ending. And why am I blaming the editors instead of the author? Because believe it or not, Banner has potential, and it’s glaringly obvious that she had no editorial guidance. It's not her fault that the book was clearly rushed to publication. And if someone had bothered to do their job, this novel actually could have been a decent read. That’s the greatest pity of this book: the mess completely overshadows the few redeeming qualities, especially the author’s talent for describing nature. I know well the Washington forests Banner writes about, and run through them every weekend--her descriptions are beautiful and spot-on. Oh, and one plot twist literally made me gasp. So, the the talent is there. It just needs work. It just needs a goddamn editor. 2 stars because it's not the author's fault...and because I didn't completely hate it. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Sep 09, 2015
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Sep 09, 2015
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Kindle Edition
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| 4.51
| 1,670
| Jun 24, 2014
| Jul 14, 2015
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really liked it
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I have a weakness for anyone who comes back from the Czech Republic with a fucked up tale to tell (it seems there are so many of us). So, when I heard I have a weakness for anyone who comes back from the Czech Republic with a fucked up tale to tell (it seems there are so many of us). So, when I heard D. Randall Blythe on NPR discussing his surprise arrest when his flight landed in Prague, I downloaded his book immediately. A death metal rocker getting cuffed at Ruzyně airport, being carted off to the notorious Pankrác prison, enduring the foreign world of the Czech legal system and emerging exonerated? I had to read this dude's story. I never expected the book to be good, but I was pleasantly surprised at just how entertaining it turned out to be. Blythe's experiences, his time in Pankrác, and his subsequent trial are undeniably interesting—and well-written—but what had me smiling were the small but revealing details: --As Czech police arrest him, Blythe describes "spreading [his] feet apart automatically." With this one detail, we learn that Blythe has been arrested so many times that he literally knows the routine. (Love it). --When a Czech police officer struggles to remove Blythe's handcuffs: "I honestly wanted to tell him to fetch me my wallet from the plastic bag across the room so I could get out my handcuff key and show him how to get these damn things off." (Hilarious!) --As Blythe discusses his tendency to "awful-ize" things, a simple but powerful description of anxiety emerges: "Within a matter of seconds, I can mentally chart a progression starting with me neglecting to cut my front lawn and ending in global nuclear catastrophe." (Even more impressive than his descriptions of anxiety are the numerous ways in which Blythe stops himself and redirects his thoughts, especially in situations where most of us would be freaking out). --Blythe discusses his past alcoholism and drug abuse at length, but I found a single sentence to be the most powerful part of that narrative--it was so powerful, in fact, that it convinced me that Blythe is likely an honest person, with a wholly realistic outlook on his sobriety: "I am not certain I will remain sober the rest of my life." (That's it. Short and sweet. I appreciate Blythe's take on sobriety. It's rational, cold and honest. There's no bullshit. I like it). --One of Blythe's prison guards whispers through a hatch in the door, "I am very sorry you are here! ... I saw you [play] at Rock-Am Park, I am a drummer, too! You must go home! We are all metal brothers!" (I was touched by the sense of community that Blythe has through his music...and also took this as a hint that at least a few good things happened in prison). As for the rest of the book? Surprisingly, it's very good. This is a story that becomes increasingly unsettling, especially as Blythe's Kafka-esque nightmare begins to feel somehow familiar. That déjà vu quality comes from Blythe's knack for touching on universal sentiments, even when telling his personal story. Ultimately, Blythe's memoir captures the frustration and powerlessness of being in limbo in a foreign country--and it doesn't take being locked up in abroad to relate to Blythe. Anyone who's had things go awry in a foreign country will find Blythe's story familiar. This is a book for anyone who's been stranded at a deserted station at 2AM, waiting for the train that never came; for anyone who has followed road signs to an attraction for hours, only to end up exactly where they started; for anyone whose wallet and documents were stolen on the day every Western Union office is closed for some obscure foreign holiday; for anyone who found themselves confused and frustrated by a country's inefficiency, and left feeling so alone and helpless that you're sure if you died, no one would bother to kick your maggot-infested corpse out of the way. And while I enjoyed this book, keep a few warnings in mind before you commit to the $15 and the 500 pages: --Blythe meanders a lot, tends to get preachy, and has a massive flair for drama. It gets tiresome quickly, and one begins to wonder why these sections (along with the numerous typos and grammatical errors) weren't cleaned up. --Although you can't help but feel for Blythe, especially when it comes to the language barrier (Czech isn't exactly a language you can pick your way through by association--it feels designed to keep people out), there are way too many cheap shots at Czechs who don't speak English. UGH. Believe it or not, Randall, state employees in a tiny landlocked country in central Europe are not required to know English. Get over yourself, and see if you can get one of those gruff prison guards to teach you a few essential Czech words. And practice pronouncing the ř if you get bored. --The book is too long, and at a certain point, the self-centeredness gets old--especially because there's very little action in the story. It would have helped if Blythe had discussed something outside his point of view: What was his band doing without him? How was his family holding up? Who was the young man who died at his concert? If you can't do that, you've got about 200 pages to slash from your memoir. --Let's get real here. Blythe was in Pankrác for 35 days and wrote 500 pages about it. Consider that against a few other, similar memoirs. Amanda Knox endured 2 trials in Italy and went to prison for 4 yeas: her memoir is 329 pages. Ingrid Betancourt wrote a 544-page memoir, but she was held captive in the jungle for 6 years. (Her fellow captives were also held hostage for years, and none of their memoirs exceed 400 pages). And you're telling me that tough guy metal rocker was felled by 35 days in Pankrác in little ol' Praha? For real? As I read, a part of my brain kept screaming, "Oh come on, you big pussy! At least you weren't in Pankrác during World War II! At least you're not in prison in Pakistan!" Either way, there should be a new rule for locked-up-abroad memoirs: you get 100 pages per year; more if you were tortured. That's it. I suppose I shouldn't complain. After all, Blythe did something the majority of us wouldn't do: after he was released from Pankrác and allowed to go back to the United States, he actually returned to Prague for his trial, and vowed to serve the 10 year-sentence he faced if he were convicted. Jesus. So don't buy this book for a fucked up Prague story, because it's more than that. Instead, it's the story of a guy who had the balls to do the right thing. Definitely worth reading...if you can stand the length. 4 stars because it got boring...and because my 500-page, 10 year-long fucked up Prague story is way better. :) ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Aug 09, 2015
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Aug 25, 2015
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Aug 09, 2015
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Hardcover
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| B0131DO9GI
| 3.58
| 12
| Jul 29, 2015
| Jul 29, 2015
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it was amazing
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Holy hell. A writer I actually like. Shocking, I know, so pay attention. Since Goodreads and Amazon are overrun with paid reviewers and authors' friend Holy hell. A writer I actually like. Shocking, I know, so pay attention. Since Goodreads and Amazon are overrun with paid reviewers and authors' friends 5-starring their books, let's get that out of the way first. I don't know Ann Brocklehurst. I stumbled upon her website in 2013 because she was the first person to call bullshit on Linda Tirado's poverty essay, and we ended up trading some Twitter messages over that whole scam. Oh, and when her Tirado article resulted in some low-blows from Gawker douchebag Adam Weinstein, I thought Brocklehurst showed remarkable restraint -- I'd have been out for blood. Anyway. Since I have a weakness for smart people who are also good writers (there are so few of them), I've checked in on Brocklehurst's other writing now and then. I felt totally validated by her take on Serial, I got all fascinated by her archived New York Times articles about Germany in the first years after the fall of the Berlin Wall, and I enjoyed her eBook The Mysterious Death of Jeffrey Boucher when I read it last year. That's about it. I like her writing a lot, but I don't know this chick, we're not friends, and I'm not writing this based on some free advance review copy. She pinged me on Goodreads letting me know about her new eBook, I bought it from Amazon, and here we are. Preamble over. Let's talk about the book. (Or rather, eBook: sort of like buying a feature article without the rest of the magazine -- it's cheaper, and you're not stuck with all of the stupid perfume ads). The story covers 8 days of testimony at a sexual assault trial in Toronto. As far as rape trials go, it's all pretty standard: a 17 year-old girl accuses her star athlete ex-boyfriend of sexual assault; he swears it was consensual; alcohol was involved; there are troubling photographs of the girl's injuries; both parties have been caught telling inconsistent stories. The court gets to sift through this mess and make a decision. Although it may seem like the same sexual assault narrative we've heard a thousand times before, there's something quite different going on in this particular trial--and in its retelling. Something is missing here...but what? There are none of the shocking details that you find in the Rolling Stone campus rape article by It goes on. No screeching updates on Jezebel.com, no images splashed all over WaPo of a girl dragging a mattress with her everywhere, no psychopath doxxing a possible rape victim, no idiots plastering their asinine thoughts about sexual assault all over Twitter. In short, there is a distinct lack of high drama that one would normally expect in a book like this. And good Christ, the lack of hysteria was so refreshing. The Toronto trial was civilized: it was a confidential matter (you won't be able to Google these people), the court scrutinized the evidence and made a fair decision. Case closed. As for Brocklehurst's take on it all? Don't expect any of that Krakauer-esque rage to come seeping through the text. Actually, I don't remember her giving an opinion on much at all -- really, she only tells readers what took place. (I think in the pre-Internet days, that was called "reporting"?) I'm already partial to emotionally absent narrators, but good God...this gave me flashbacks to the 1990s, when you could pick up a newspaper and read an objective account by a trained journalist you could actually trust. (Well, except for Stephen Glass, but whatever). And while I had an extremely emotional reaction to Missoula, I actually found Ann Brocklehurst's book to be much more unsettling. It wasn't just the natural tension that arose from the frank reporting. I think the best way to articulate it is this: when you cut away the noise and just focus on what happens during a rape trial...it's fucking upsetting. Sexual assaults are difficult to prove, the accuser and the accused are both traumatized (albeit for different reasons), kids' futures are at stake, and the court has the fun job of figuring out who's lying. Yeah, I bit my manicure off. Always a sign of a good read. Suffice to say... KICKED ASS. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Aug 06, 2015
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Aug 08, 2015
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Kindle Edition
| ||||||||||||||||
| 0385538731
| 9780385538732
| 0385538731
| 4.11
| 55,065
| Apr 21, 2015
| Apr 21, 2015
|
it was amazing
|
2/24/16 I just watched a woman stand up in front of several hundred people and slice through Krakauer's dramatics and sensationalism. She took a fact- 2/24/16 I just watched a woman stand up in front of several hundred people and slice through Krakauer's dramatics and sensationalism. She took a fact-based approach to confront Krakauer, and she pointed out an important problem with what he's written. It was amazing, and she got lots of applause. I think it made me understand why I haven't been comfortable with Krakauer for almost a decade: his last 3 books have a strong undercurrent of rage, and while that anger makes for an emotional and gripping read, it also distorts facts. I appreciate what Krakauer has done here. He's written an emotional book that brings attention to an important issue. But this guy is writing from a dark place. He's seething, and you can feel that anger in his books, and when you're in the same room with him. I don't want to follow him down that path any more, no matter how well he writes. *** This book should be required reading for high school and college students. I'd strongly encourage parents to read it as well. This is the most important book Krakauer has ever written, and I think it's one of the most important books of this century. Krakauer holds the mirror up to a generation of narcissists, a broken legal system, and a negligent society with a disturbing culture that values perpetrators over victims. Shame on us. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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May 03, 2015
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May 05, 2015
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Hardcover
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| 0307594963
| 9780307594969
| 0307594963
| 3.84
| 9,346
| Sep 05, 2013
| Apr 14, 2015
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it was ok
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Since I consider Chris McDougall (like Laura Hillenbrand and Jon Krakauer) to be one of the few American writers actually worth a damn, I'm going to g
Since I consider Chris McDougall (like Laura Hillenbrand and Jon Krakauer) to be one of the few American writers actually worth a damn, I'm going to give him a free pass on Goodreads. I won't rip his new book apart, although the temptation is there. McDougall's first book, Born to Run, had a linear and epic narrative reminiscent of the Odyssey, a rich cast of real life "characters" that the author followed throughout, and a wild central theme that was legitimized by academic studies, evolutionary scientists, and the author's personal experiences. Natural Born Heroes, however, reads like our author popped a bunch of speed, got over-excited about tons of different topics -- Nazis, the Paleo Diet, the human fascia, parkour (Jesus H. Christ), foraging in Prospect Park, knife-throwing (sigh), Greek mythology, Wing Chun, Brazilian jiu jitsu -- and couldn't shut up about any of them, but couldn't tie them together in any meaningful way, either. For any book nerd who loved Born to Run as much as I did, a boring follow-up, a schizophrenic narrative, and a story with no real point amount to something a little like heartbreak. I actually wondered if I was part of the problem. Maybe my own mind was too scattered to follow what McDougall was saying. Maybe it was my fault that the narrative felt like it jumped around more than a traceur on bath salts. I even popped a Ritalin (no shit) and tried to focus. But no dice. Whether you're stone cold sober or dialed in on Dexedrine, nothing will change the fact that this is a disjointed, disorienting, and altogether confusing book. I suppose I could forgive the fact that the chapters had nothing to do with each other, but there was something depressing about seeing a brilliant writer get so sloppy: "A few months after refusing to show me Paddy's escape route, he agreed to show me Paddy's escape route." (Did this guy change editors or something?) "We like to think of ourselves as...lone wolves in a dog-eat-dog world, but guess what?: Dogs don't eat dogs." (Oh for the love of...nevermind). Some of the final chapters, in which McDougall touches on the subject of running and the ideal fitness diet are where the author truly shines. A damn near tear-jerking ending that I never saw coming was also reminiscent of the Born to Run Chris McDougall. However, it's upsetting to see that his natural brilliance as a writer was reserved for a handful of pages towards the end of a long-ass book about a bunch of crap I could have Wikipedia'd on my own. While a part of me is tempted to think Chris McDougall has lost his fucking mind, he reveals the real truth of the matter in the Acknowledgements section, where he writes, "I couldn't choose between two different book ideas." Yeah, Chris, I can tell. Let's just forget this ever happened. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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May 2015
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May 05, 2015
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Hardcover
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La Petite Américaine
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my rating |
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| 3.81
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liked it
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not set
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Oct 18, 2023
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| 3.72
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it was amazing
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Aug 2019
not set
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Aug 01, 2019
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| 4.04
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it was amazing
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not set
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Dec 16, 2018
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| 3.58
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it was ok
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not set
not set
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Jul 26, 2018
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| 4.49
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it was amazing
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not set
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Sep 03, 2017
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| 4.23
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it was amazing
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Aug 16, 2017
not set
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Aug 16, 2017
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| 3.84
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it was amazing
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not set
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Mar 17, 2017
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| 4.41
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really liked it
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Jan 05, 2017
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Jan 05, 2017
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| 3.95
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it was amazing
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Dec 02, 2016
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Dec 03, 2016
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| 3.66
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it was amazing
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Apr 05, 2016
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Apr 05, 2016
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| 3.88
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did not like it
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not set
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Jan 20, 2016
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| 3.86
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it was ok
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Jan 04, 2016
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Jan 17, 2016
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| 3.60
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it was amazing
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Jan 25, 2016
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Jan 11, 2016
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| 3.72
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did not like it
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Nov 30, 2015
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Nov 30, 2015
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| 4.23
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it was amazing
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Oct 04, 2015
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Oct 04, 2015
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| 3.37
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it was ok
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Sep 09, 2015
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Sep 09, 2015
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| 4.51
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really liked it
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Aug 25, 2015
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Aug 09, 2015
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| 3.58
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it was amazing
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Aug 06, 2015
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Aug 08, 2015
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| 4.11
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it was amazing
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May 03, 2015
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May 05, 2015
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| 3.84
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it was ok
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May 2015
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May 05, 2015
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