Book Review: The God Cookie, by Geoffrey Wood

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.


The book:  Geoffrey Wood's The God Cookie

Review:

If this was God trying to direct me to read a book--angels humming, harps playing, booming voice, capital G God--then he needs to reevaluate our relationship or let someone else choose the material. The plot reads like the script to the worst Meg Ryan rom-com, circa 1995, and only half as plastic. The book's dialogue is rapid, banal, abundant, and as aimless as vanilla ice cream that's liquefied rapidly on the sidewalk in mid-July sun. It's sweet, viscous, and generally a lost cause.

I didn't realize this was a "faith fiction" book when I grabbed it off the library bookshelf looking for something light, a bit of whimsy perhaps. A random character follows a fortune cookie because he thinks God is directing him? Sure, I'll bite. Maybe it would be like bargain basement Monty Python.

Oh, no. Around the 300 page mark you're hit with a random chapter that reads like a South Carolina highway billboard asking you if you've really accepted God into your life. I was this close to pulling out my credit card to ask some televangelist if I could pay him just to take the book away from me.

Or, you know, bring it back to the library for me. If there is a God, maybe he was sending me a message he didn't want me reading such drivel to begin with.

Book Review: Catch-22, by Joseph Heller

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.


The book:  Joseph Heller's Catch-22

Review:

Could it be 50 pages shorter? Probably.

Could a couple characters be cut out? Maybe.

But is it worth reading? Definitely.

Catch-22 is one of those books people label a classic, but it's never placed on any of those trite "100 Greatest American Novels of All Time!" lists. Why, I'm not sure.

Maybe it's because the novel walks a fine line between humor and the ungodly horrors of war, so that people don't know what to make of it. Great books can't have irreverent humor after all! Only misery and depression is allowed! If you haven't popped half a bottle of Prozac and a fifth of Scotch by the end of a book, then said book can't be great apparently.

In the end, Catch-22 isn't about war. It's really just about the insanity that exists in all of us. Like how insane that this isn't one of the "100 Greatest American Novels of All Time!"

Book Review: The Martian, by Andy Weir

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.


The book:  Andy Weir's The Martian



Good to know that if I'm ever stranded on Mars for over a year with little chance of survival that it's perfectly natural to play it cool and not stress.

Did crap blow up? Was I left behind? Does anyone know I'm alive? No worries! I'm just an engineering geek who doesn't worry about anything...anything at all! Am I second tier sitcom actor in a mind-blowing sci-fi plot? Sure, why not!

I kid.

There's a brief moment, about 60% of the way through the book, where the main character, Mark Watney, has a brief, one-page glimpse pondering being alone on a planet millions of miles away from any other human.

HA!

And then he doesn't care any longer, and goes back to being an engineering geek who just wants to talk technical specs.

Oh, the human drama!

Book Review: The Long Night, by Julian Mayfield

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.




The book: Julian Mayfield's The Long Night.

Really brief book synopsis (without giving too much away)--

A kid has to pick up some money his mother won in a Harlem neighborhood lottery. He loses it to bullies. He spends all night on the streets trying to figure out ways to earn the money back before going home. He comes across racists, pedophiles, and alcoholics along the way.

It's like your worst day ever in grade school described in fewer than 200 pages.

Book Review: Bleak House, by Charles Dickens

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.

The book: Charles Dickens's Bleak House

So let me get this straight, Chuck.

You're writing a perfectly dull story that involves the English Chancery court system--an everyday slice of boring life--and halfway through a thousand page novel, because you were bored with your own story perhaps, you have a character spontaneously combust.

Dead.

Again--and this can't be emphasized enough--by spontaneous combustion.

And then you continue on with the novel as if human spontaneous combustion is an everyday occurrence, much like dust allergens or abundant flatulence.

Answer me this, Chuck: How much opium were you on?

Book Review: The Marrow of Tradition, by Charles Chesnutt

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.

The book: Charles Chesnutt's The Marrow of Tradition

Story:

A professor I was working with as a TA in an American Lit class used this book during the semester out of pity for a Ph.D candidate who had spent seven years building his dissertation around Charles Chesnutt's The Marrow of Tradition. She even agreed to let the Ph.D give a lecture in her class around the book.

The Ph.D candidate--obviously--loved Marrow. The professor hated it, but never told the guy. Again, pity.

So imagine what a book club would be like. One person will make a fuss over the sad/happy ending, while some cynic in the group will argue the race riots are a dated ploy for attention. At one point some book club attendee sitting quietly in the corner will pity everyone reading Marrow, and silently hope next month the group will read The Help.

The Marrow of Tradition is that kind of book. That kind of book everyone either loves or hates, even the academic types that make a career out of such things. You pity someone who loves it, you pity someone who hates it--but everyone feels a little pitiful if they haven't even bothered to read it.





For the record, I side with the Ph.D student, without the slightest hint of pity.

Book Review: O Pioneers!, by Willa Cather

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.

The book: Willa Cather's O Pioneers!

Okay, sure, Cather has some issues with dialogue. A lot of issues with dialogue.

But she does write non-dialogue passages like this:
There was about Alexandra something of the impervious calm of the fatalist, always disconcerting to very young people, who cannot feel that the heart lives at all unless it is still at the mercy of storms; unless its strings can scream to the touch of pain.

And like this:
Emil was the one who trembled, through all his frame. After he left Marie at her gate, he wandered about the fields all night, till morning put out the fireflies and the stars.

And this:
Marie sat sewing or crocheting and tried to take a friendly interest in the game, but she was always thinking about the wide fields outside, where the snow was drifting over the fences; and about the orchard, where the snow was falling and packing, crust over crust. When she went out into the dark kitchen to fix her plants for the night, she used to stand by the window and look out at the white fields, or watch the currents of snow whirling over the orchard. She seemed to feel the weight of all the snow that lay down there. The branches had become so hard that they wounded your hand if you but tried to break a twig. And yet, down under the frozen crusts, at the roots of trees, the secret of life was still safe, warm as the blood in one's heart; and the spring would come again! Oh, it would come again!

It's like talking to someone who can't cook a turkey dinner, but damned if they don't make some fantastic pumpkin pie.

That's Willa Cather's writing style.

Book Review: Franklin and Winston, by Jon Meacham

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.

The book: Jon Meacham's Franklin and Winston.

There are two things repeated again and again and again throughout the book that you can take away from this analysis of the friendship between FDR and Winston Churchill.

1.) FDR was an emotionally aloof, distant, chilly person who never let anyone know how he felt.

2.) Churchill was a tender-fleshed nudist lush.

Or it could be that FDR was emotionally distant because Churchill was flashing his badge all over the place. That's a possibility, too.

Book Review: Jacob's Room, by Virginia Woolf

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.

The book: Virginia Woolf's Jacob's Room.

Great news if you're a masochist and have always felt like James Joyce's Ulysses was a casual read that cut corners and was too approachable. Virginia Woolf is here to make sure all your dreams of incomprehensible plot are possible.

Jacob's Room reads like how a conversation with a four year old hopped-up on Swizzle Sticks goes down. One moment you're talking about Transformers and Handy Manny, the next you're suddenly stuffing 37 marshmallows in your mouth and randomly throwing toys into the toilet. And to the four year old this is a natural progression of a conversation.

That's how Jacob's Room operates. At some point your brain just tried to squeeze 37 marshmallows into it and is now ODing on the Disney Channel.

Book Review: A Week at the Airport, by Alain Botton

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.

The book: Alain Botton's A Week at the Airport.

Blend together only the best parts of a philosophy class with a major, European-hub airport. Then add some wannabe National Geographic photography.

It's better than I make it sound. A lot better.

Better than a economy flight or a philosophy class, too.

Book Review: Super Sad True Love Story, by Gary Shteyngart

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.



The book: Gary Shteyngart's Super Sad True Love Story.

[30 pages in]: Okay, a little funny. Fast paced, a bit unique. Lenny is whiny, but I can live with it.

[75 pages in]: Eunice is...unpleasant.

[110 pages in]: "Funny" is now on the side of a milk carton.

[145 pages in]: The last funny guy named Lenny was Lenny Bruce. And he's dead.

[210 pages in]: Is this supposed to be the blending of Fahrenheit 451 and 1984, or just the bastard of a blog entry and a Tiny Tim song?

[265 pages in]: I think Shteyngart is repeating paragraphs.

[266-300 pages in]: Yup, he's repeating paragraphs.

[352 pages in]: Alrighty. Time to place this in one of those book recycling bins.

Book Review: Caucasia, by Danzy Senna

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.



The book: Danzy Senna's Caucasia.




So Senna writes her own life, fictionalizes 5% of it, adds an addicted retail/consumer/commodification tick to her writing style, all under the guise of racial identity in America--and it's mind-blowing to people.

Put another way, Caucasia's writing style is the illegitimate love child of an 8th grade poetry class and a Walmart commercial.

I've seen better symbolism and metaphorical imagery in the short stories of a 10 year old girl hopped-up on Beiber.










Man, I sound bitter up there, don't I? I mean, don't get me wrong--I hate the book. It somehow makes Cormac McCarthy look decisive by comparison. But my tone comes across a little rough, doesn't it? Do me a favor and read the review to yourself again in a chipper, upbeat tone. Now it sounds like I just hate the book--but with a certain delightfulness, right?

Book Review: A Gesture Life, by Chang-rae Lee

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.

 The book: Chang-rae Lee's A Gesture Life.

Review:

Award Winner: Most Uncomfortable Attempt at a Sex Scene

Award Winner: Most Forgettable Main Character

Award Winner: Most Flippant Attitude to War

Award Winner: Least Realistic Portrayal of Family Reunion

Award Winner: Best Head-Scratching Use of an Abortion in a Novel

Award Winner: I Can't Believe I Paid Full Price for This Book

Book Review: Native Speaker, by Chang-Rae Lee

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.




The book: Chang-Rae Lee's Native Speaker.

Review:

So all your major characters sound like they received a perfect score on the verbal portion of their SATs.

Gotcha.

Book Review: Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.


The book: Theodore Dreiser's Sister Carrie.

Review:

Let me explain the quirks of Sister Carrie.

Ever talk to someone in their 70s, usually a pretty sharp grandmother, and they talk like this?:

You know I went out to have lunch with my old friend Barbara from high school? Well, we went to a little Italian cafe in the North End that had some of the cutest tablecloths I've ever seen. It reminded me of the tablecloths Barbara's cousin, Myrtle, makes. You remember Myrtle, right? Sure you do. She plays tennis at the country club with me about once a year? Brunette? Good Botox? I think she lives in Del Boca Vista these days. Or maybe it's West Palm. What's the town in Florida where the Sizzler is at? It's two towns over from that, where the Alligator Handbag Museum is located. Speaking of which, Myrtle's husband, Bob, bought their daughter a new handbag for her birthday. Can you believe it? Their daughter is now 27 years old and not married, despite dating that deadbeat sleaze she calls a boyfriend for the past five years. I mean, how long do two people need to be dating before they finally settle down, you know? And he doesn't even have a steady job. Sure, he's a third-shift manager at the Kwik-E-Mart and gets free coffee once an hour, but that isn't going to pay a mortgage no matter what kind of coffee it is. Even if it's that expensive Thai coffee I saw once on the Travel Channel with that swarthy Italian cooking guy, whatshisname, Anthony Boardman or something. The famous chef who always looks sweaty and lacks any biceps? That guy...

That's what Sister Carrie turns into. At some point, Theodore Dreiser morphed into a sixty-five year old woman with a jones for hot gossip. Everything in Sister Carrie becomes a digression, followed by another digression, followed by another...

At some point you forget the point of the story was a lunch with Barbara where the tablecloths were nice.

The Rapture: Parrr---tayyy!

If you haven't heard, God is throwing a killer party tomorrow. According to a variety of religious groups, cults, and psychiatric ward escapees, The Rapture is scheduled for tomorrow evening. It should be a delightful Saturday evening filled with anarchy, pestilence, and great guacamole dip. (Bring the chips!)

But you might want to prep yourself on what it's going to be like. There are books that offer a detailed fictional account of what Rapture will entail. None is quite so popular as the Left Behind series, a book version of the Home Alone movies which has sold 40 million copies--possibly just in Alabama and Texas alone.

What's it about?
(Warning: Plot spoilers! Don't want to ruin the suspense for tomorrow!)

The book details the account of philandering pilot Rayford Steele (sounds like a name from a Skinimax flick) whose flight to London starts having passengers disappear. That's because Rapture started, and, if anything, God understands how lack of leg room on a plane is brutal. A journalist named Buck Williams joins up with the pilot later on, and together comic hijinks ensue!

Book Review: Custom of the Country, by Edith Wharton

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.


The book: Edith Wharton's The Custom of the Country.

Review:

Okay. I get it. Rich people are annoying. Newly rich people are even more annoying. Divorcing newly rich people are the most annoying of all.

But did you know they can make for a dreadfully annoying plot, too?

Best of all: after 450 pages, you, too, can hope to never find love or financial stability.

Book Review: The Lemon Tree, by Sandy Tolan

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.




The book: Sandy Tolan's The Lemon Tree.

Review:
Well, that sure as hell isn't how the news media portrays the Middle East. Sensible people? Authentic lives and backgrounds? But the media tells me everyone in the Middle East is either riding in military tanks or wearing bandannas and throwing Molotov cocktails. Is The Lemon Tree suggesting that very complex situations can't be explained by broad-brush stereotypes? That people might act like people?

But--but--but--you mean I have to actually put things in perspective?

Book Review: A Short History of Nearly Everything, by Bill Bryson

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.

 The book: Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything

Review:

Question: If Wikipedia and your witty uncle became amorous and somehow had a child, what would it look like?

Answer: This book.

Don't read it if you're a scientist. Don't read it if you have a PhD in anything that involves numbers. Don't read it if you know how to use a graphing calculator with ease. Don't read it if your career choice ends in anything with "-ology." Odds are your britches will get bunched because you think Bryson skips over too much microscopic information that is just too, too, too important to your field of expertise to skip over.

Otherwise, if you always wondered how stuff in the universe works--but never felt like asking your college professor for fear they'd assign you a 20 page research paper on the topic--this is the book for you.

Book Review: Into the Forest, by Jean Hegland

This is part of the continuing series of random books reviews that'll be nothing like the New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.

The Book: Jean Hegland's Into the Forest


Review:
Diet post-apocalyptic happenings? Check.

MacGyver-esque ingenuity? Check.

Incestuous lesbianism? Check.

Homeopathic birthing techniques? Check.

Communal living in rotted out tree stumps? Who in their right mind...?

Listen, Jean. I love dystopian stories as much as the next neurotic English major. But people living in tree stumps?? Is Smokey the Bear a ghostwriter on this book? Did the Sierra Club put you up to this? We're not even talking tree houses with a fashionable window and rope swing. We're talking rotted stumps. I've yet to meet a human being who fell in love with rotted stumps and wanted to live in one, no matter how dire the situation. But if you included a rope swing maybe I could get behind you on this.