Magical Thinking, by Augusten Burroughs

Magical Thinking
Augusten Burroughs

I don't often read collections of essays. For some reason, the thought of reading essays conjures up my sophomore English class, circa 1993. When I say to myself, "Self, you're about to read an essay," something happens in my head, and I think it's my eyeballs trying unsuccessfully to hide in my stomach. As an English teacher, I realize the irony of what I've just written. But the fact remains, I equate essays with boring.

This collection of essays, thankfully, is anything but. In fact, they were quite enjoyable. The title, Magical Thinking, is taken from the author's belief that he can influence external events simply by thinking about them. Even though it is totally irrational, I too share this trait. FUN. The essays were so funny that I was laughing out loud -- once in the waiting room of my doctor's office, and I think I got a look or two for that one. Oh well.

The strength of Magical Thinking, to my mind, was the fact that Burroughs does not discuss his messed up family. I read Running with Scissors, and it was good, but after a hundred pages I get the point: Your childhood was really messed up. That sucks for you. (But at least he didn't suffer the horrific abuse of Dave Pelzer.)

Instead of tackling his dysfunctional family and insane childhood, Burroughs tackles the insanity of his adult life. And trust me, the adult Augusten is much, much more entertaining. You'll squirm as he kills a psycho rat in his NYC apartment, cackle as he torments a crazy cleaning lady, and feel all gooey inside as he finally meets a perfect match.

In a nutshell: Super entertaining, Burroughs redeems the essay. Each one brings a hilarious new topic to the table. You may not gain philosophical enlightenment, but everyone can find something to relate to here. More importantly, you'll have a great time along the way.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

Delights and Shadows, by Ted Kooser

Delights and Shadows
Ted Kooser

I'm picky with my poetry. This is because I believe that much of what passes for "good poetry" these days is actually crap. By crap, I mean that which lacks soul, lacks beauty, just all-around lacks. Most are awfully pretentious, as if obscurity equals some sorth of Truth. (Anne Carson, I'm looking at you, dear.)

So I don't read too much poetry these days, with the exception of Louise Gluck, Mary Karr, Margaret Atwood, and a few other souls who have managed to pierce my rather tough armor. I'm glad I read a particularly insightful review of Ted Kooser's Delights and Shadows, or else I might have lumped him in with the rest of those poets I don't read.

Ted Kooser's poetry is often deemed "accessible," a label that seems damning to the would-be "serious" poet. And while it cannot be denied that his work is extremely accessible, that does not mean his poetry lacks depth and beauty.

Delights and Shadows tackles not only difficult subjects such as the death of his parents and Kooser's own sense of aging, but also "delightful" topics like the simple beauty found everywhere in life. I won't go into a long discussion of my favorite poems (there were too many) or a long analysis of his themes (which is unnecessary). True, his poems are accessible, but don't be mislead by the term. There is great depth to this work; you'll be able to read "simple" poems again and again and find more and more insights as you do.

In a nutshell: Finally, a contemporary poet that doesn't suck. Everyone can find meaning and illumination here.

Bibliolatry Scale: 6 out of 6 stars

Party Monster, by James St. James

Party Monster
James St. James

DAMN ME! Why was I not born earlier??? WHY???? If I had been born just FIVE years earlier, I could have been a clubkid. Of course, I'd probably be dead by now if that were the case. But damn! What a way to go.

A quick overview for those poor souls unfamiliar with the clubkids: they were a group of club-goers (mostly male, mostly gay) who dressed outlandishly (it was fashion, dammit) (well, for most), took copious amounts of drugs, and were just all-around fabulous in the mid-nineties.

Many did not survive the club years: some overdosed, some disappeared entirely, and some were murdered. To be more specific, Angel Melendez was murdered (the guy with the wings on the cover of the book is Angel's film incarnation). Michael Alig (played by Macaulay Culkin in the top right of the book's cover) murdered Angel while in a drugged-out, murderous rage.

The story is told by James St. James (pictured at left during his club days), Michael's Alig's sometime best friend. Rising from the depths of obscurity, Michael Alig became what's known as a party promoter: he threw fabulous parties at hip New York clubs, made sure all the fabulous people showed up, and kept them steeped in drugs all the while. For at time, Alig avoided the addictions that smothered so many of his acquaintances (few are true friends in this world), but when he fell, he fell hard.

Soon, his life was dictated by heroin, and he befriended Angel, the drug dealer with the wings whom they had all mocked heretofore. But Alig was a celebrity, making frequent appearances in the New York society pages, receiving free meals and limo rides, so why should he have to pay for his drugs?? Basically: lots of drugs + stealing from your dealer + lots and lots of drugs = a big, big problem.

Long story short: Alig went to jail (I believe he was released earlier this year) and James St. James went on to write this memoir. However, like any memoir (note to Frey haters), it is not complete fact. How on earth can anyone remember exactly what happened ten years ago, especially after being totally inundated with K for a period of several years?

Thus, if you're looking for cold, hard facts, read Clubland. Ignore my low rating. Had I based it on objectivity and top-quality research, it would have been rated higher. Party Monster, on the other hand, is anything but objective.

That said, the better story belongs to James St. James. I found myself laughing out loud and tearing through the pages as if I were a speed demon myself. In fact, Party Monster was so enjoyable I hope that St. James writes something other than this book; if he doesn’t, he will have turned Alig’s bitchy opinion (that James is nothing without him) into prophecy. He even had the nerve to say, “Isn’t that classic? How dare you, James, co-opt MY murder to make yourself look fabulous! Go commit your OWN murder and let me have my moment!” But St. James has real talent, and I hope he writes something non-Alig related that will gain him deserved praise.

However, Party Monster is not without its flaws. It glamorizes Alig (at right), who was a junkie, racist, and straight-up lunatic before he even became a murderer. To this day, he blames his murder of Angel on the society that spawned him, without admitting to much real blame himself. Furthermore, this book makes being a loser addict look cool. To put it another way, I'm glad I didn't read this book 10 years ago, when it really would have messed me up.

And yet, Michael remains so fabulous in my mind. DAMN YOU, MICHAEL! Why must you remain fabulous when you beat Angel with a hammer, stuffed him full of Drano, left him to rot for a week in your tub, and then cut off his legs and genitals before packing him in a box and shoving him in the river???? DAMN YOU! It’s like sympathizing with H.H., who only wants to love little Lolita.

Okay maybe not.

In a nutshell: Don't expect gospel from James St. James--but do expect a great tale told in a unique, hilarious voice. If you want facts, read Clubland. You'll have more fun with Party Monster, however.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

Clubland, by Frank Owen

Clubland: The Fabulous Rise and Murderous Fall of Club Culture
Frank Owen

I go through fazes. Right now, I'm really into Club Culture. Yes, I know I'm over ten years too late. No, I don't care.

Actually, my newfound interest in the clubkids was inspired by my devotion to Richie Rich, one half of Heatherette, the fabulous designing duo. (We're MySpace friends, bitches. Don't hate.) Unfortunately, Richie doesn't know that

a. he's straight

b. he's my boyfriend

so I must console myself by reading about the things that even peripherally involved him 10+ years ago. Sigh. But first, Heatherette:

Richie is on the left. God, he is FIERCE. Trevor Rains (the other half of Heatherette) is on the right. Yes, I am aware that I picked the more effeminate half to love. No, I am not interested in hearing what this means about my psychology.

Anyway, my fascination for them led me to Clubland. It received good reviews, and I thought it would tell me about Club Culture. It did, but I got more than I bargained for. It seems that the clubkids are only one part of Clubland; the rest was ruled by various thugs and mafia types. BORING. Have you seen these people dress?

YAWN.

So I will admit that I only read those parts that involved the clubkids. (More on them in the next post.) In an admirable show of courage, I tried to read the other parts, but then zzzzzzzzz. It just wasn't worth it.

Bibliolatry Scale: 2 out of 6 stars, and those only if you're interested to begin with

How 'bout more Heatherette?

Sigh.

The Wendy Williams Experience, by Wendy Williams

The Wendy Williams Experience
Wendy Williams

How you doin?

Let me begin by admitting I'm biased. I love Wendy. She is, as she often says of others (not of me, alas), "a friend in my head." Whenever I can, I listen to her syndicated afternoon radio show (visit her site here to find a station in your area), and boy was I surprised to hear she had another book coming out! I didn't even know there was a first one! So I had to go right out and show my support, and, of course, get some good gossip. And when it comes to gossip, Wendy doesn't disappoint.

In The Wendy Williams Experience, Wendy dishes on tons of celebs: Whitney, Mariah, Puffy, Flavor Flav are just the tip of the iceberg. She doesn't hold back with a single one. Except when something is really juicy--DAMMIT WENDY!! Tell us which rapper has AIDS! Lawsuits be damned! (However it must be said that the alert reader should be able to construct an educated guess based on the clues she provides--LOVE IT.)

The Wendy Williams Experience is different from Wendy's other books; her first book (Wendy's Got the Heat) is more of an autobiography, I think, and her more recent work is a foray into fiction. But, as a Wendy fan, I want to hear her telling it like it is. And this she does, in trademark style. I wasn't able to put it down, so captivated as I was with her anecdotes and interviews. Part of the book's greatness is the voice: it's all Wendy. Anyone familiar with her show will recognize the same Wendy on the pages; I could hear her voice as I read.

Furthermore, it was refreshing not to hear a stream of ass-kissing: Wendy is upfront about a celebrity's strengths and weaknesses, even if she doesn't get along with him or her (see Sean "Puffy" Combs). Even more importantly, she's upfront about her own weaknesses as well.

If I had to find some aspects to criticize, my first complaint would be that I want more pictures!! To be fair, Wendy does provide us with about 8 pages of pictures in the middle of the book, but I want more, Wendy, more! And names!! I know that R&B singer (and that rapper...and that other rapper) is gay, Wendy, JUST TELL US THE NAMES SO I CAN BE SURE!!! And tell us what you said to Judge Mathis!!! But I know that it was impossible for Wendy to write these things for legal reasons, so you can't really blame her.

In a nutshell: If you are a fan of Wendy, The Wendy Williams Experience is a must-read. If you aren't familiar with her, listen to her show pronto. Just be aware that she does focus on the hip-hop community, so if you aren't familiar with those personalities, then this book might not be for you. But if you want some great gossip, dive right in!

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

Outside Valentine, by Liza Ward

Outside Valentine
Liza Ward

In 1957, Charles Starkweather and his fourteen-year-old girlfriend, Caril Ann Fugate, went on a killing spree in Nebraska. Eleven people (including Caril Ann's mother, stepfather, and sister) were dead by the time they were caught. Starkweather was eventually executed, but still lives on through the various movies he inspired (Natural Born Killers and Kalifornia, among others). Caril Ann served her time in prison before being released to live out the rest of her life in relative peace.

Liza Ward grapples with these crazy days by combining fact and fiction. She intertwines the story of Caril Ann with two others, Lowell and Susan, whose significance slowly becomes apparent. Each chapter is narrated by one of these three characters, Caril Ann's as the murders occur in 1957, Susan's from 1962, and Lowell's from 1991. It was interesting to see how the effects of Starkweather and Caril Ann continue up to the present day. No action is without permanent repercussions.

Clearly Ward has taken liberty with the facts of the case, and while I cannot deny that the blame rests squarely on the shoulders of Starkweather, I cannot help but feel that Caril Ann gets off easy in Outside Valentine. It's all too obvious that Ward sympathizes with Caril Ann--but, amazingly enough, all Ward's sympathy still cannot transform Caril Ann into a likable character. In fact, Caril Ann is an absolutely detestable girl whose passivity is as much to blame as Starkweather's violence. Ward constantly harps on Caril Ann's victimization. I understand she was only fourteen at the time and was swept away by Starkweather's murderous impules.

However, Ward's Caril Ann is amazingly clearheaded and rational throughout the book: she knows their actions are wrong, and it's only when she doesn't feel like doing it anymore does she try to stop it. Except that she doesn't really try to stop it--Caril Ann, recognizing the jig is up when the police have surrounded them, runs like a little bitch to the police, crying for help all the while--but only after altering her appearance so as to seem less guilty. I just can't feel pity for someone who "never did a thing." By the end of the book, I was tired of the victim song, and it ruined what could have been a better novel.

In a nutshell: The book's jacket states that Outside Valentine is a novel "that is capable of redeeming the losses it so devastatingly conveys." Really? Eleven people were murdered for pretty much no reason except that Starkweather wanted to kill them. The book ain't that good.

Bibliolatry Scale: 3 out of 6 stars

The Secret Life of Laszlo, Count Dracula, by Roderick Anscombe

The Secret Life of Laszlo, Count Dracula
Roderick Anscombe

Her hand was pale and perhaps a little cold, but the white damask tablecloth brought out the hint of pink at the knuckles and the fingertips, and there was such a soft succulence about the limb that I was seized with the notion of biting into the fleshy bulge of the thenar eminence, of sucking at it, biting deeper until my teeth encountered the grit of fascia and tendons and could go no farther. Is that grotesque?...If we can be transported with delight by such a vegetarian pleasure as sinking one's teeth into the summer's first peach and feeling the sweet juices overflowing the lips and dripping off one's chin, how then can we frame the magnitude of pleasure that may flow from devouring a maiden's hand? I cannot believe I am alone.

Are you loving it? "Is that grotesque?" he asks! Who doesn't love a murderous aristocrat with a penchant for partially devouring his victims?!

This is the journal of Laszlo, Count Dracula. But it is no supernatural vampire who writes these pages; instead, it is simply your everyday, run-of-the-mill psychopath. The author's portrayal of the mind of a lunatic seems scarily accurate, and it is: Anscombe's a criminal psychologist whose patients inspired Laszlo's criminal mind.

For his part, Laszlo isn't such a bad guy, really. Well, okay, he likes to murder young girls and taste their blood. But he does feel really bad about it; his desire to kill is a compulsion which he cannot control. (You may, like me, catch yourself sympathizing with him a few times, before reminding yourself that he's a pretty big jerk.) Meanwhile, his townspeople believe him to possess saintly qualities and eventually touch the hem of his garment or kiss his hand out of superstition.

Will he get caught? Will he, tortured by guilt, turn himself in? As the murders increase, the facade of his innocence becomes increasingly difficult to maintain. But is the fear of getting caught enough to stop this murderer, or any criminal, for that matter? Unfortunately, Anscombe's glimpse into criminal psychology shows us that the thrill of getting caught is half the attraction.

In a nutshell: If you're like me, you won't be able to put The Secret Life of Laszlo, Count Dracula down. It's a page-turner, and an exceptionally well-written one at that (especially for someone who is not a writer by profession). Yet another reminder to go NOWHERE alone. And don't trust creepy Hungarian counts.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

A Passage to India, by E.M. Forster

A Passage to India
E.M. Forster

A Passage to India, though about British imperialism in India, has much to say about current relations between the United States and the Middle East. Unfortunately, Forster paints a dim picture, and it appears hopeless that two cultures can ever truly understand one another. And, if mere comprehension is impossible, one cannot hope for improved relations.

A Passage to India follows a few individuals -- Miss Quested, who has recently arrived in India with her would-be mother-in-law, Mrs. Moore. Quested's "quest" is (at its most basic) to decide if she would marry Ronny, Mrs. Moore's son. Doing so would mean a life in India, and all that it means.

What does it mean? It means doing as the other British do: namely, strictly treating the Indians as base inferiors and not interacting with them unless absolutely necessary. In fact, it is the British women who display the most appalling racism when discussing Indians. As in Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter, the women are worse than their male counterparts, portrayed as highly vindictive and unsympathetic to the plight of others.

But Miss Quested disagrees: why must she treat the Indians badly? She sees no reason not to make friends. She will be different. And so, a train of consequences is set into motion, and, like dominoes falling, cannot be stopped.

Illumination Factor: High. Forster illustrates that every single individual is affected by the culture clash. It is facile to believe that only groups of people of affected, leaving the individual at peace. A Passage to India is not an uplifting book: despite speaking the same language, British and Indian can rarely understand one another. Communication is difficult and often misconstrued. The two cultures think in entirely different ways; when one group hears one thing, the other hears something different. Likewise, gestures are misread. And how does one mend this problem, when neither culture cares enough to really learn about the other and go beyond stereotypes?

In a nutshell: At times gripping (and at times tedious), A Passage to India is a timeless piece that unfortunately has much to say about our time.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4.5 out of 6 stars

House of Leaves, by Mark Danielewski

House of Leaves
Mark Danielewski

If you haven't yet read House of Leaves, you must immediately drop what you are doing and go get it. Seriously. Now. This is one of the craziest, freakiest, and smartest books I've ever read.

The story: Johnny Truant, a drug-addicted resident of Los Angeles, helps his friend clear out the apartment of the recently deceased Zampano, a blind old man who hoarded his possessions and sealed every crevice of his apartment shut. Johnny takes along an old trunk, inside of which is the life's work of the dead man--a collection of fragments, narratives, and research entitled "The Navidson Report." This report is the true (?) story of Will Navidson and his family, who move into an idyllic home.

This home is perfect -- until (insert ominous music here) the family goes away for the weekend; when they return, a closet is in the master bedroom. The problem? This closet was not there before. It's pitch black, devoid of all the usual closet-type stuff, and cold. The family is spooked. Navidson measures, checks the house plans; to his dismay, he discovers the house's interior measurements exceed the exterior measurements. Then a hallway "grows" downstairs where it could not possibly exist. Navidson, against the wishes of his wife, explores it. He finds cavernous spaces, pitch black, and something hunting him.

This frame-within-frame-within-frame story mixes elements of the horror story, academic research, mythological references, and a little extra craziness on the side. It's been dubbed "experimental," and it obviously is - but it's an experimental novel that actually works. The "plot" is composed of a central narrative offset by footnotes, diversions, appendices, and the like. You'll find yourself with finger in page as you track down a footnote or search out an appendix. You'll find yourself turning the book around and around, as Navidson enters the labrynth within his walls and the text mimics his movements. It's insane, it's wonderful, it's the most unique thing I've ever read.

That said, one reading isn't going to cut it. By far. I'm on my second read, and I'll need at least one more. I'm at the point where I can formulate some pretty good theories about the book, and I've got some opinions as to the "meaning" of certain things (i.e., I think this character and this character are really the same, and that the book is really this, not this) but it won't make sense unless you've read the book once, and I don't want to ruin any surprises. I'll be happy to provide my theories in the comments, if anyone is interested.

House of Leaves offers commentary on the nature of space, stability, madness, reality, and more. However, I can't even get to that point yet. I'm still trying to figure out exactly what is going on. I mean, what is really going on. But it's a hell of a ride getting there.

By the way, if you've ever heard of the singer Poe, you might be interested to know that her second cd Haunted, is meant to accompany the book. She and the author are brother and sister. So, after you've wrapped your mind around the book, you can throw the cd into the mix! Have fun with that. (I'm not being sarcastic, either--analyzing this book ad nauseum actually is fun.)

In a nutshell: Absolutely a must-read, House of Leaves is not without its flaws, but it is one of the most thought-provoking works I've ever read. And it's pretty creepy at times too, which is always fun.

Bibliolatry Scale: 6 out of 6 stars

Madeleine is Sleeping, by Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum

Madeleine is Sleeping
Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum

Where do dreams end and reality begins? After reading Madeleine is Sleeping, I'm not sure. Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum's ambiguous reality prevented me from being sure about what happened and what didn't. But it doesn't matter anyway. Simply put, Madeleine is Sleeping is a pleasure to read. Exquisitely written, it reads more like poetry than prose, and it is easy to become so wrapped up in the beauty of its words and images that the plot becomes secondary.

The plot is divided into about 250 chapters or vignettes, some as long as a page, others as short as a sentence. The story itself is not easily conveyed: Madeleine is both continually sleeping, unable to be woken, and yet also awake and living. The first chapter sets the scene: Madeleine is sleeping, her mother admonishes the rest of the children: do not wake her. And so Madeleine sleeps on, never waking.

But there is another Madeleine at work: one who is a precocious child, who is sexually curious, whose hands have been dipped in melting lye as a punishment for her behavior. Madeleine is sent away to a convent, her fingers melded into paddles.

From here, Madeleine both continually sleeps and yet leaves the convent, meeting up with a band of gypsies, a rag-tag group of freaks: a woman so hairy she can play her chest like a viol, a man who can create beautiful sounds by breaking wind, another woman who sings like a man.

Which of these is real? It is too simple an explanation to say that the sleeping Madeleine is dreaming these actions, although several chapters entitled "she dreams" indicate that interpretation is not altogether incorrect. And yet it is clear that Madeleine's dreams also affect "reality" -- both her dreams and her real life are inexplicably intertwined.

In a nutshell: At the end of the day, it doesn't really matter which is the more "real." Madeleine is Sleeping is a beautiful, unique book that requires analysis and thought, but one that can also be enjoyed for its beauty.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

The Autograph Man, by Zadie Smith

The Autograph Man
Zadie Smith

Before reading The Autograph Man, I didn't know that most critics and readers HATED this book. I'm glad I didn't know that, because it definitely would have affected my perception. That said, I can see why they felt this way. But The Autograph Man, Zadie Smith's second novel, proves the writer is an excellent one. Perhaps she just bit off more than she could chew with this book.

This is my first introduction to Smith; I haven't read White Teeth or On Beauty. Nevertheless, despite the awfulness that is The Autograph Man, I must concede that I want to read more of her. Perhaps I shouldn't have started with The Autograph Man. But surely it is the mark of a good writer to write something pretty bad and yet still leave me wanting to read more.

The Autograph Man is about Alex-Li Tandem, a half-Chinese, half-Jewish man who sells and trades autographs for a living. The novel opens strongly, with Alex and his friends as children, traveling with Alex's father to a wrestling match. After this prologue, the story proper opens with adult Alex trying to find his path as an adult. He's neither happy nor fulfilled, has barely a "career," and can barely sustain the vital friendships that seem to keep him going. He's not a particulary sympathetic character, but Smith creates some excellent friends for Alex so it's not all a wash. Basically, Alex is lost and his friends push him to get a grip.

I had two gripes with the book: first, the Kabbalah. The first half of the book is 10 chapters long, each named for a branch on the Tree of Life. Call me superficial, but Kabbalah is *so* 2004. I'm tired of trying to understand it. Sure, it sounds cool and all, I guess, but I don't want to read any more about it. I don't get it, I don't get how it connects to this book, it just kinda seems arbitrarily thrown together. Jimmy Stewart = Tif'eret! That's beauty! cool! Wait -- huh?

My other problem was with the second half of the book. Basically, it sucked.

Illumination Factor: Not too great here. Probably due to the second half, which really didn't develop any important themes set forth in the first.

In a nutshell: Apparently not her best work, but after reading it (ok, I skimmed the last 50 pages) I still want to give Zadie Smith another try. So it can't be that bad.

Bibliolatry Scale: 2 out of 6 stars