If there's one thing I hate more than books, it's book reviews. It's such a mossy kind of writing -- slippery intimations about stale characters most readers will never know and unnecessary glimpses of soft and ugly authors nobody cares to see. At least when it's a TV movie review, they're usually talking about someone I would like to have sex with. Like a Catherine Bell, or an Erin Gray. Or even an Evening Shade era Marilu Henner. But book reviews? I just want to say to these people, "So, now what? I'm supposed to read this? Reading's for dorks, Oldy McLoser."

But what's worse, what really insults my intelligence, are the book reviews that masquerade as articles about a promising new author or an old one that's made a comeback. They usually include a quote from some Oprah author, like Wally Lamb, and are filled biographical information on the author. I always get the impression that these reviewers just got sucked off by some publisher's PR girl, and are more than happy to blanket the book in nonspecific, lukewarm praise in return.

And what's even worse than all that is when the book in question is well-nigh an autobiography, and its central concerns are how hard it is to grow up rich or in boarding school.

When the author is a woman with a man's name? Why, that's simply to much to bear. Read this and tell me that you disagree.

She has the name of a travelling trash compactor salesman, Curtis Sittenfeld, and she wrote a book about how hard it is to be an outsider at a Boston prep school very much like Groton, her alma mater. How about this one, Curtis? How about you shut the fuck up and go learn something about tough times? Maybe teach at a public school in the Mississippi delta, but watch out -- they saddle things that look like you down there.


Why the long face, Curtis?

Analogcabin @ 1:46 PM
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