Meh.

What's more disappointing, picking up a random book and finding it to be lackluster or reading a book you expect to be great and finding it to be mediocre? The Unnamed showed Ferris' ability to understand the minutiae of daily life and translate it into something fascinating is still strong. Unfortunately, he fucks up the simplicity of his appeal by giving his leading man a disease of walking - he just starts walking and can't stop until he falls down from exhaustion. Interesting conceit, but somehow, not as interesting as the scenes where he maneuvers his relationship with his daughter. If it ain't broke, Joshua Ferris, don't fix it.

All the Same

I've always loved history. I grew up on a steady diet of historical fiction novels, tempered by Babysitter's Club and Sweet Valley High (because it is important to understand what is culturally relevant today as well!), I double majored in history in college and find myself spending far too much time now reading biographies and nonfiction books about random historical subsects I really have no reason to know anything about. I think this love of history stems from the odd comfort to be derived from the fact that nothing changes, not really. And while The Group is technically historical fiction in that it takes places in the 1930's, it could essentially be about a group of girls graduating from Vassar today except their squalid flats would be in Astoria and not the West Village (ohhh to live in a time when living in downtown manhattan was the utmost of frugality). I don't know that I necessarily liked all of these girls but I certainly recognized them. The girl married to the abusive theater artist who she supported financially while he hurled insults to her face and cheated behind her back. The girl who loses her virginity to the man who tells her from the start he doesn't want a relationship and still, she finds herself sobbing for him while trying on a wedding dress for a wedding to somebody else. The gung ho working girl who is told by her first boss that this really isn't the right field for her. Yeah...I think we're all pretty well acquanted with these ladies. Maybe this is a time where the inevitability of history's repeating itself isn't such a comfort.

You Don't Love Me Yet

::phone rings::
Me: "mrrllo?"
Blocked number: "Hello? Sarah?"
Me: "What?"
Blocked number: "This is Chris. Your name is in my book but I don't remember where I met you."
Me: "What?"
Chris: "Are you from Los Angeles?"
Me: "Yes? No. I don't...who?"
Chris (sadly): "Oh well. Take care then."
(hangs up)

This happened to me at 7:45 this morning. Chris, whoever you are, if I was rude to you I'm sorry but you woke me up in the middle of a very strange and wonderful dream. At first I thought maybe you were part of it, and it was disappointing to find out that you weren't. Also, I mean, what? Who does that? Still, if you were going to give me money or something maybe you should call back at a more reasonable hour. I promise I will be nicer.

The thing about Jonathan Lethem books is that, invariably, while I am in the middle of one of them, things like this happen to me. Halfway through Chronic City, my dog got the hiccups. She had them until I finished the book. She had never had them before and she has not had them since. Right you guys? I know.

The exchange above is something that might as well have taken place in You Don't Love Me Yet, a Pynchonesque novel about a bunch of late 20-somethings in Silverlake whose motto is "You can't be deep without a surface." Rather than the post-culture-apocalypse-malaise that say, Bret Easton Ellis' characters wander about in, these characters fully embrace their shallow existences, according extraordinary weight to the most ephemeral of things: hook-ups, jobs in experimental art galleries, shows at warehouse parties, etc. etc. It's not a perfect book- I don't think it's possible to write a great novel about music (talking:music::dancing:architecture...you know) but I seem to have a penchant for stories about skinny, arty, directionless girls melting into their late twenties on L.A.'s east side. Complete coincidence, I am sure. Besides, because it is Lethem there are plenty of lovely images to steal: "the bleachy morning" that is the "exact temperature of a sleeping body," for one. A perfect little novel from one of those Saturday afternoons when the rain offers up an excuse for not doing anything at all.

Ok, soo...

I suck at blogging. Clearly. Bursts of energy followed by prolonged periods of lassitude pretty much define me, which is why I feel a lot of sorry for whatever child I eventually end up raising. Hopefully it learns to forage for food early on. Anyway. In happier news, my boss got me a kindle for Christmas! This is awesome because it means I get my favorite thing in the world: instant gratification. I want a book? I have a book! Immediately. (Along with a $9.99 credit charge. Alas, the model is not yet perfect.) Over Christmas break I read two that you must go out and read right away, even if it means you have to go to a Barnes and Noble and sit in the cafe and page through a real book like a sucker. Enjoy your paper cuts, plebe. (NOTE: I AM JUST KIDDING. I LOVE REAL BOOKS. LIKE, I LOVE THEM. AND THE WAY THEY SMELL.)

The first one was Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer which sort of turned the world of food upside down for me. Did you know factory farming is the number one contributor to global warming? And that some pig farms create pits of manure the size of small lakes that can make surrounding regions literally uninhabitable, sickening nearby residents and poisoning the air? Foer manages to get across the absolute evil of the factory farming industry without making you feel like he's lecturing. Instead, he experiences each new revelation alongside the reader, examining each new fact from a variety of angles and bringing up the same arguments you'll probably think to yourself ("but meat is so tasty/such a major part of community and friendship/I'll just eat free range chickens") and systematically defeating them. I read this book on the flight home to Texas a few days before Christmas which turned out to be a mistake. ("Sarah, just eat the Turkey. Come on. It's not really meat. What's wrong with you?"- my grandmother)

The second was called Too Big To Fail by Andrew Ross Sorkin. Despite the author's inability to form a non-prosaic sentence, the story behind the collapse of the American financial system is pretty fascinating, and also really, really scary. It's also really complex, so I won't try to summarize it here, but I feel like everybody affected in any way by the current recession owes it to themselves to read this book.

Post-Apocalyptic Book Club

I joined a book club! The first book they're reading is The Road which did not make me very excited because...a man and his son on a road in a burned out shell of civilization sounds like a pretty downbeat 300 pages. And I love me some Oprah but I get judgy on her book club. Reading Oprah Book Club selections make me feel like a suburban housewife. And yet... it's amazing. It's somehow life affirming and frightening all at once. I am proud to be a member of any book club that encourages the reading of novels like this.