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| 1594206791
| 9781594206795
| 1594206791
| 4.49
| 95,958
| Sep 25, 2015
| Sep 29, 2015
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it was amazing
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Review coming....
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Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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not set
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Sep 03, 2017
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Hardcover
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| 0316356549
| 9780316356541
| 0316356549
| 4.23
| 16,480
| 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 |
Notes are private!
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2
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Aug 16, 2017
not set
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Aug 16, 2017
not set
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Aug 16, 2017
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Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 0008139571
| 9780008139575
| B00TD9BAU8
| 3.86
| 4,058
| unknown
| May 26, 2015
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it was ok
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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 , 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 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
| ||||||||||||||
| 1614520011
| 9781614520016
| B00LI9GSNK
| 3.72
| 11,329
| 2011
| Apr 20, 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 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 . 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 , which meant that countless Afghan and Pakistani girls . 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
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Nov 30, 2015
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Nov 30, 2015
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Kindle Edition
| ||||||||||||||
| 4.51
| 1,812
| 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
| |||||||||||||||||
| 0385538731
| 9780385538732
| 0385538731
| 4.11
| 56,935
| Apr 21, 2015
| Apr 21, 2015
|
it was amazing
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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
| ||||||||||||||
| 0307594963
| 9780307594969
| 0307594963
| 3.85
| 9,673
| 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 Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ. 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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| 1400064163
| 9781400064168
| 1400064163
| 4.39
| 979,017
| Nov 16, 2010
| Nov 16, 2010
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it was amazing
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I don't really have a lot to add to the discussion about this book. Clearly, it's an undisputed master of both biography and storytelling. Here's what I don't really have a lot to add to the discussion about this book. Clearly, it's an undisputed master of both biography and storytelling. Here's what I will say... I both envied and adored the author's writing ability, and the more I read, the more convinced I became that Hillenbrand is the only writer worthy of telling Louis Zamperini's story. In her exhaustingly researched and meticulously detailed story, flickers of literary greatness light up every page, from the sadistic prison guard who "had been whipping about camp like a severed power line," to a love interest whose beauty wields a wild power: "Louie wasn't the first guy to be felled by Cynthia. Dense forests of men had gone down at the sight of her." Hillenbrand even manages weave terror with poetic beauty: "A neat, sharp form, flat and shining, cut the surface and began tracing circles around the rafts. Another one joined them. The sharks had found them." (As if surviving a plane crash over South Pacific weren't freaky enough). "As they passed the fortnight mark, they began to look grotesque. Their flesh had evaporated. Their cheeks, now bearded, had sunken into concavity. Their bodies were digesting themselves." "He watched [the sock] flap in the current. Then, in a murky blur beyond it, he saw the huge, gaping mouth of a shark emerge out of the darkness and rush straight at his legs." Honestly. Who bothers to write this well any more?? If I had to dig up one complaint about an otherwise perfect book, I'd say that I was left feeling a little "so what?" about the whole thing. In the end, it was a cool story, but it didn't offer much beyond that. It's simply a the tale of an amazing life -- we can't assume it's the story of a great human being because we never learn anything about Zamperini other than what he did and what happened to him. We never learn anything personal about him, which is fine, but it never really humanizes him. Ah well, we can't all be perfect. The snark in me thinks the last thing we sucky Gen Y-ers need is a reminder of the superiority of the Greatest Generation, and wonders how one can survive a plane crash, being adrift at sea for 6 weeks in shark infested waters, and a Japanese POW camp, only to fall prey to Billy Graham... But whatever. Fuck my tiny complaints and disregard my snark. This was a great book. Crazy story written by one of the most talented authors I've ever come across. Kicked ass. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Dec 27, 2014
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Jan 06, 2015
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Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 0307720659
| 9780307720658
| 0307720659
| 3.93
| 21,506
| 2014
| Oct 14, 2014
|
it was ok
|
3/20/16 So I went to the Suki Kim Q&A last weekend. I was hard on Kim in my review, but I stand by what I wrote, even more so after having attended th 3/20/16 So I went to the Suki Kim Q&A last weekend. I was hard on Kim in my review, but I stand by what I wrote, even more so after having attended the Q&A: she said that her book is investigative journalism and not a memoir, and that it was only labeled a memoir because her publisher insisted on it. The book is nowhere near investigative journalism, and is one of the weakest North Korea memoirs I've ever read. So, like I said. I stand by this one. Thx. LPA 2/20/16 Okay, what's going on around here? First this happened, then I find out this is happening, and now I've learned that Suki Kim is coming to town. Should I go to see Suki Kim's thing? I don't want to....but am starting to wonder if I should.... * I would have liked this book a lot more had the author not annoyed the sh!t out of me. Suki Kim is like one of those college girls who goes to study abroad in some exotic place, only to spend the semester pouting in her dorm room because she misses her boyfriend. Seriously. When Kim heads to North Korea to teach English with a missionary group at a Pyongyang university, she has the opportunity to observe the lives of American fundamentalist Christians and ordinary North Koreans -- two fascinating groups that should provide plenty of fodder for a decent memoir. Yet, the author fails us. The result is not a memoir about North Korea. It's just a couple hundred pages of whining by a chick who can't deal with not getting laid for a few months. I'm not kidding. Look. It's clear that Kim is trying to draw parallels between her love for a man, Christians' love for God, and North Koreans' love of their leader -- but it doesn't work. Anything about North Korea, Kim's experiences there, or the lives of Kim's students are completely overshadowed by the author's self-centeredness, and her obsessive longing for a guy we never even get to meet. Kim spills a little bit about the non-existent sex lives (um, who cares?) of the unwed Christian faculty at the university, but promptly brushes them aside to give readers a healthy overdose of her own life...and it's weird, distracting, and ever present throughout the book. A couple of examples? Within a nanosecond of meeting the all-male student body at the university in Pyongyang, Kim decides that she's "fall[en] in love" with all of her students. Um, okay. Later, for whatever reason, she'll have her all-male class write essays about "How to Successfully Get a Girl." What a great topic for a college-level English course: not only is it irrelevant to her students' lives, it's also culturally insensitive as fuck. North Koreans don't "get girls." Due to mandatory military service, North Korean men don't date for the first decade after high school. After their military service, a majority of North Koreans' marriages are arranged by their parents. Kim will of course tell us she's trying to open students' minds with these types of topics. Uh-huh...one American woman successfully deprogramming brainwashed North Korean men, one clever ESL lesson at a time? Yeah, right. The lone female in the room asking young men to write about how to win over a woman, when winning over a woman isn't a part of their culture? Gee. That sounds a lot like attention-seeking...as if Kim chose the "How to Successfully Get a Girl" topic to heighten the sexual tension in the room and solidify her position as Pyongyang's most talented cock tease. Um. Awesome? She goes on to toss in some self-flattering dialogue spoken by others, such as: "Comrade Suki, I hear you and Comrade Katie are the most popular teachers, and the boys are just wild about you," and "When I see Comrade Kim Suki casting her feminine glace over her students in the cafeteria, I wonder if the students are all captivated by her feminine charm. They must lose sleep at night thinking about their teacher. They are virile young boys, after all." Ok, we get it. Kim wants to get some, her students are all hot for teacher, and no one is getting any. It's frustrating. But do we need an entire book about it? When she isn't being flattered by minders or flirting with students, Kim is usually shut away somewhere on campus, missing her "lover" (God, that word is so pretentious, just say "boyfriend") back in Brooklyn, who is content to ignore her emails. Kim writes so much about this lover, yet reveals almost nothing about him -- not even why she's so enamored with him. One begins to question if he exists at all. But then Kim hammers out some gems that only true longing can bring about: "A feeling of hopelessness saturated me and could not be washed away," and "In that world, I needed a lover...and that need drove me crazy some nights." Sigh...Suki, God gave you 10 fingers for a reason. Deal with it. Or at least pack a Jack Rabbit on your next trip to Pyongyang and spare us the drivel. Anyway. I got so overloaded with the talk of the absent lover that I began to question the title of the book itself: "Without you, there is no us" is a verse from a North Korean anthem, but I got the sense that Kim was directing it towards the Brooklynite who couldn't be bothered to reply to her emails. But I digress. Some real things do happen in the story. Kim and a Christian colleague get in a screaming fight over whether they can show a Harry Potter film to their 20 year-old pupils. Kim gets bored and homesick and insists that her life in Pyongyang is dull. Kim also develops a strange, maternal affection for students who aren't much younger than she is, and then she misses the lover some more. Sigh. By the end of the book, I was almost fascinated by sheer depths of Suki's self-centered wallowing, which not only prevented her from accomplishing anything meaningful in Pyongyang, but kept her from noticing the the bigger picture...Like, you know, the fact that she's fortunate as fuck to be a bored American in North Korea...and that luxury is afforded to her simply because she was born on the right part of the planet....and that most of the 25 million people currently locked inside the prison-nation of North Korea would probably give anything to trade places with her. I just couldn't take it. This isn't a memoir about North Korea. It's a boring book about the weird relationships and situations that develop out of a 30-something's dry spell abroad. North Korea and Kim's fundamentalist Christian colleagues are the selling point, but they merely function as the backdrop for the tale of Kim's shitty love life. Kim should thank her publisher's marketing team for repackaging this nonsense and spinning it as a North Korean memoir. There really is no excuse for this, especially when books like Comrades and Strangers: Behind the Closed Doors of North Korea or Only Beautiful, Please: A British Diplomat in North Korea prove that foreigners living in Pyongyang can come away with decent stories to tell. This book was just like being told a boring story by someone I don't like. I didn't care, and I just wanted it to end. UGH. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Nov 08, 2014
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Nov 21, 2014
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Nov 08, 2014
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Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 0399171983
| 9780399171987
| 0399171983
| 3.58
| 5,997
| Jan 01, 2014
| Oct 02, 2014
|
did not like it
|
It amazes me how much I have in common with Linda Tirdao. I, like Tirado, had a caring family and a relatively privileged upbringing. I, like Tirado, It amazes me how much I have in common with Linda Tirdao. I, like Tirado, had a caring family and a relatively privileged upbringing. I, like Tirado, spent my 20s taking low-paying jobs and making shitty financial choices while living an ideal existence in Europe. And as with Tirado, shit got real when I had a child. But there, alas, our paths diverge. I returned to the USA and turned my writing into a side business while I went to graduate school. When shit hit the fan during my second year of grad school and I really was in poverty (not the chosen kind this time), I learned a valuable lesson: no one owes you a damn thing, so be grateful for the friends and communities that help you, and work your ass off to get out of it. Linda Tirado, instead, kept working minimum wage jobs, found out she couldn't live off of that salary with kids in tow, and got all grumpy. She also figured out that working, parenting, and attending college is really hard. Then she wrote (an untrue) stereotype-laden essay claiming to be in poverty, promoted it on Gawker, set up a GoFundMe and collected $80,000 from well-meaning but gullible readers who believed her story. Tirado then did some backpedaling, meandered, and somewhere in a rambling update on GoFundMe ($80,000 later, mind you) mentioned that she's not actually poor, had grandparents who had bought her a house, etc. etc. Perhaps she admitted to not being poor because more careful readers had already begun . In any case, the original publishers of her essay stammered out something like a retraction, Tirado walked away with a book deal, took a trip to Vegas without her kids, got some new tattoos, wrote her book, and has somehow been dubbed "The woman who accidentally explained poverty to a nation." (Maya Angelou must be turning over in her grave). And what does all of this have to do with the book? Let me put it this way. I've been Linda Tirado: spoiled, entitled, and aghast at just how much it sucks having to work for your money. But Linda? Your whole poverty kick? Don't bullshit a bullshitter. Reading this book just created an obnoxious argument between my brain and the words on the page. Every. Single. Thing. Is. Wrong. Well, wrong, or completely embellished. The book doesn't have the meth-induced rambling quality of Tirado's internet essays, and for that, I'm grateful to whoever edited the damn thing. But can the boys at Putnam bother to hire a fact-checker, or give the job of spotting bullshit to a non-millennial? Please? Here are a few of my favorites: --Tirado is outraged that contract work deprives people of a regular salary and benefits. Um. What is she even talking about? Contractors earn more than salaried employees precisely because they pay for their own benefits. And guess what? Contract work gets a lot of people in the door and into full-time, permanent positions with companies that otherwise wouldn't even have interviewed them. --Continuing on the contractor rant, Tirado's assumption that FTEs are better off than contractors because of "job security" is nauseatingly naive. A full-time employee can walk into work on any given morning and be laid off for no reason at all. At least contractors have definitive start and end dates. But I guess for Tirado to know any of this, she'd have to have worked a real job...which probably isn't necessary when your grandparents buy you a house. --Equally irritating is Tirado's assumption that salaried employees with benefits are better off than minimum wage workers with crappy benefits. In fact, Tirado discusses at length the "humiliation" of working your ass off while remaining poor. Linda. Dear. Don't ever assume anything about anyone else's financial state. Ever. There are people who work their asses off, have benefits, make $80,000 a year, and are in financial dire straits. Don't believe me? Think about single parents. Think about people living in high cost of living areas. Think about student loan debt. Car payments. The cost of childcare. Think about medical bills, or better yet, people with kids who have huge medical bills. If Tirado had any understanding of work, money, and paying for shit herself, she might be surprised at how quickly any of the aforementioned scenarios eat up a fat salary...and just how many in the top 25% of earners are one paycheck away from the street -- that is, no better off than the working poor she whines about. No, Linda, I'm afraid the rest of the world doesn't have it better than you, after all. :( --And you've gotta love Tirado's attitude towards work. She bemoans the fact that she's been told contradictory things by her bosses (i.e.,"Use more coffee but save more coffee.") And she also doesn't like that companies make her recite lines to customers, which she claims is paying her to "pretend I'm not me and that I care about you." Sigh. Being given contradictory instructions by the boss? Being asked to act in a professional manner towards customers? Yeah. I guess I call that work. I guess I call that part of the job. Work sucks, for sure. Know what sucks more? Not having a job. And when she's not making asinine assumptions that the world just has it so much better than she does, Tirado twists the truth in ways that made me wish I had a wood-burning fireplace for this book to call home. Examples? --She supposedly knew a stripper who got fired for not having good enough breast implants. Really? That's funny, because until 2012 when dancers started suing, strippers were always independent contractors -- not club employees. The strippers paid the club to be able to dance there. Strippers' dues were a huge source of a club's income, and they didn't get fired, for fuck's sake. Dancers were barred from working only if they owed back rent to the club. As for the story of being fired for a bad boob job? Sigh. Strip clubs are dark -- the only illumination comes from dim red lights, purposely chosen because they mask every physical flaw. In that environment, no one is going to see the silicone leaking. And in an industry where fucking customers for money and blowing lines in the bathroom are no biggies, trust me, you're not getting fired for your tits. Someone is lying here, and given her track record with the truth, I'll wager it's Linda. --She says college didn't make financial sense for her because it was so expensive. What does make financial sense, then? Not investing the time and money into working your way toward a degree and a better life, and thus remaining poor? Heh. When I was in grad school I knew at least 3 other single mothers pursuing their undergrad degrees...but nevermind, college doesn't make sense. --Tirado says, "I don't smile. Someone found a picture of me smiling from back in 2006, before my front teeth went and a wisdom tooth cracked off." Fuuuuck me. This time last year, wasn't it a that knocked out all of her teeth? When a person can't even keep her own lies straight, she's not worth my time. Yeah. This kind of arguing back and forth with a book, written by an author whose credibility is already less than zero? I couldn't take it. I mean, why not write something useful? How about suggesting that we start teaching economics and money management to middle-schoolers, and reiterating to the next generation that minimum wage cannot be their life plan? How about suggesting things that communities can do to help people get the skills to get off the minimum wage? Of course, Tirado gives us none of this. I can't say I'm surprised. The book gets one star for being the physical proof that my fellow Gen Y-ers really are a generation of self-obsessed, lazy, entitled a$#%les who don't want to work -- and for proving that in the publishing world, you don't need talent...just a sentimental sob story and a few gullible readers. SUCKED. ...more |
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1
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not set
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Oct 06, 2014
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Sep 21, 2014
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Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 0312538359
| 9780312538354
| 0312538359
| 3.99
| 714
| Jan 01, 2009
| Oct 13, 2009
|
it was amazing
|
I first came across Wafa Sultan the way most Americans did: In 2006, someone sent me a link to a YouTube of Sultan participating in a debate on
I first came across Wafa Sultan the way most Americans did: In 2006, someone sent me a link to a YouTube of Sultan participating in a debate on Al-Jazeera. I thought she was courageous, well-spoken, and right -- I like any woman who debates men in authority and uses her superior intelligence to makes them look stupid. Then I stopped caring for a good 7 years or so. I downloaded her book a few weeks ago because it seemed a lot better than reading the Daily Mail's wall-to-wall coverage of ISIS and Syria. What can I say? I don't like Islam (and don't comment that I'm an Islamophobe, as I have 3 whole Muslim friends). I'm not into an ideology that hasn't reformed for 1400 years and, as Bill Maher said on Friday, is “the only religion that acts like the mafia, that will fucking kill you if you say the wrong thing, draw the wrong picture or write the wrong book.� The recoil effect that Islam has with me, Bill Maher, and any rational human being is nothing compared to what Wafa Sultan feels about the religion. This chick hates Islam, and she should. She saw barbaric murders occur in the name of Allah; she had female patients whose beatings and rapes went hushed away because Islamic societies punish the woman and not the perpetrator; she had no rights or autonomy until she left Syria for the United States. The only problem with this book is that Wafa Sultan is too good of a writer. She explains the Muslim mentality with sweeping, easy-to-understand sound bytes that are alarmingly simple. She makes statements that are meant to encompass all Muslims, and she has the remarkable ability to get you to agree with her. As much as I like Sultan and enjoyed her book, the lack of wiggle room she allows strikes me as dangerous. I may not like Islam. Wafa Sultan certainly doesn't. But I'm sure there are at least a few Muslims out there who don't hate Jews, who don't believe in some America-Zionist-kufar conspiracy, who don't think women need to wear a niqab, who don't think adulterers should be publicly executed, who don't agree that drawing a cartoon of Muhammad should land a person in jail, etc. etc. There must be a handful of these people, right? I mean...fundamentalists like Anjem Choudary who call for global jihad? Round them up and deport them. The little ISIS punks who like to play with knives and lop off the heads of journalists and aid workers? Hunt them down and kill them. People who plot terror attacks? Send them to Cuba. Then plant some leaders in the region who can start enforcing a secular education, bring the mentality of the religion to the 21st century, and take people's minds beyond the madrassa. (It all sounds so simple when I'm in charge, doesn't it?) But for those who aren't fundamentalists, who are rational people who just want to follow their religion and do good for humanity? I wish Sultan had taken a few pages to focus on them as well. Maybe she can drop that in her next book. Either way, I'm buying it. Debates aside, the woman can write, and I found the book to be educational and entertaining. The chick has some serious gonads. I like it. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Sep 14, 2014
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Sep 17, 2014
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Sep 14, 2014
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Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 0394562720
| 9780394562728
| 0394562720
| 3.95
| 2,454
| Aug 12, 1987
| Aug 12, 1987
|
really liked it
|
This book left me unexpectedly irritated. Why? Because this isn't a book about the making of "The African Queen." It's a book about whatever relations This book left me unexpectedly irritated. Why? Because this isn't a book about the making of "The African Queen." It's a book about whatever relationship Katharine Hepburn had with the film's director, John Huston. I suppose I should back up a bit. Katharine Hepburn is one of those celebrities I don't think I'll ever be able to figure out. She pings my gaydar like no other: she was an outspoken feminist who spent her life dressing like a boy, she never remarried after her divorce, she never had children, she apparently had a , and she had decade-long relationships with women. Even Spencer Tracy when her first met her. So she was the most obviously closeted actress ever, but she also managed to sleep with half of the men in Hollywood... And what about Spencer Tracy, anyway? We've all had the Hepburn/Tracy pairing shoved in our faces, and Hepburn did drop her career for 5 years to care for him. But just because they were a "brand" with great onscreen chemistry doesn't mean that they weren't bearding for each other. Whether or not the Tracy thing was real, it doesn't change the fact that Hepburn had a real talent for getting married men to fall in love with her: Tracy, John Ford, and Leland Hayward to name a few. (Given Hepburn's track record, I'm guessing that Lauren Bacall came along for the shooting of "The African Queen" for reasons other than merely accompanying her husband -- smart girl). Whatever happened between Hepburn and Huston during the making of "The African Queen," I'm guessing Hepburn didn't come out the winner in the relationship, and thus she wrote a book that was -- is -- a playful slap at Huston. What's maddening is that Hepburn never cops to it. She alludes to it, drops hints, and dances around it, but she never offers up the goods. Sure, the book is interesting. The poor cast and crew of "The African Queen" got to deal with lots of fun things on location in Africa, from army ants and alligators to swarming tsetse flies and bouts of dysentery. There are even smirk-worthy moments, such as Hepburn having a bucket by her feet for puking between takes while Bogart and Huston, who had spent a majority of their time in Africa in a drunken stupor, remained in perfect health. Yet there is very little here about the actual production of the film, or what happened on set. And the most interesting tidbits have absolutely nothing to do with the making of the movie. When Hepburn has still has disdain for Huston, she takes to observing Lauren Bacall and says, "Let's look at Betty [Bogart] ... She is young and she has lovely tawny skin and she has the most fabulous sandy hair. Beautiful whether it's straight or curled. In fact, you've never seen her until you've seen her in her bright-green wrapper on the way to the outhouse in the early morning with her hair piled up on her head and no lipstick or anything else. Her sleepy-slanty green eyes and her common-sense look and her lost voice and her lanky figure and her apparent fund of pugilistic good nature." Am I projecting my modern sensibilities on to K.H., or is she checking out Betty Bogart? I suppose it doesn't matter. Lauren Bacall was gorgeous. Anyone would have gawked at her. Whatever. Moving on. Hepburn proceeds to ramble on, to such an extent that if I looked at one more em dash, I was sure I'd gouge my own eyes out. (I swear the book was dictated). Among the sparsely detailed stories of the pain in the ass that it was to film this picture in Africa, with the equal pain in the ass John Huston at the helm, something happens. Hepburn loves the cabin that Huston has built for her, and she throws her arms around him ... but she still hates him because he's unprofessional. Then he gives her the "best goddamndest piece of direction" she's ever heard, and she has a new respect for him. Fine. Later, she's out wandering in some African village alone one evening, runs into Huston, and they go off somewhere and share a bottle of wine on a hilltop. She "doesn't remember" what they talked about but "it was magic." When they wander down and join the rest of the cast and crew, Hepburn notes that "Betty was disgusted with me," and "there's a lot to be said for sinning." So, what happened?! Tell us, for Chrissakes! And the next day, the cast and crew remark that Hepburn has fallen under Huston's spell as she takes off on a game hunting safari with him. And no more details. Argh! Eventually, after a day of filming and puking, Hepburn goes back to her cabin and falls asleep, while Huston and company go get lit up at some local Congolese cantina. A wasted Huston wanders into Hepburn's cabin that night, and this happens: " 'Just stay alseep, Katie dear. Stay asleep. Asleep--asleep...' And he rubbed my back with his smooth, strong hands. And my head and my neck and my hands and my feet. Such a blessing. Took the trouble from me. It's true--the laying on of hands. So quiet--so sweet--so soothing. He was gentle. I slept. I don't remember what happened when he stopped." Yeah. Sure you don't. Jesus. If one of my drunk guy friends came into my tropical hut and proceeded to give me a full-body massage... never mind. Just friends? Suuuuuure. So I guess this book hasn't done much more for me than make me resent old Hollywood for its cover-ups (Gary Cooper, Rock Hudson, Cary Grant, Greta Garbo) and the time I grew up in (Sally Ride, Jodie Foster, the Defense of Marriage Act, Rosie O'Donnell and Ellen playing straight on TV until the early 2000s) that perpetuated all of the bullshit. It doesn't matter if Katharine Hepburn was gay or straight, swung both ways with Tracy, checked out Bacall or seduced Huston. Slut or straight laced, it doesn't matter. But I wish that it had just been okay to tell the truth about these things -- about being bisexual, sleeping around, and seducing other women's husbands. It would have made for a better story, and a way better book. And it would have made growing up a lot different for everyone. As for Katharine Hepburn...I'll never figure her out. Decent book, so long as you can tolerate Hepburn's staccato style and you're not looking to find out anything about what it was like to make the movie. I'm hacking off a star for feeling like I was only told half of what could have been a riveting truth. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Jul 18, 2014
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Jul 19, 2014
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Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| B00JNZRKAQ
| 3.77
| 243
| Apr 13, 2014
| Apr 13, 2014
|
it was ok
|
A short, entertaining read about the roller coaster ride of the first year of a Silicon Valley start-up. I just didn't get that into it because I read A short, entertaining read about the roller coaster ride of the first year of a Silicon Valley start-up. I just didn't get that into it because I read the same thing (in less than 500 words) on ValleyWag every day. Well, that, and I already lived through the first dot-com bubble: for every Steve Jobs and Larry Page, there were thousands of computer geeks that bypassed college in favor of jobs at AOL, Kozmo, etc. I'm guessing they either went back to school or found jobs pumping gas somewhere....? Now, as detailed in No Exit, history is repeating itself in Silicon Valley. The thing is, I just don't care about these people. I didn't in 1999, and I don't now. The only real kernel of interest I found in this e-book was the attitude of a younger, too highly-paid, and very far removed generation of 20-somethings in Silicon Valley, who believe "the whole university system is going to be made obsolete because of technology [because people can learn anything online and through webinars]" and who can't seem to grasp the concept that "coffee shops [and] other...storefronts on streets [are] businesses with costs and revenue models." I find myself sneering at young, privileged people who opt out of college in favor of work; these types will always know how to code better than you or I ever will, but you'll never have a conversation with them that goes beyond the intellectual level of an uneducated 19 year-old. Ugh. I adore computer geeks, programmers, and entrepreneurs, but I detest the dimwitted -- nor do I trust any group that believes their method alone will render education "obsolete." Silicon Valley? Definitely not my crowd. And definitely not something I want to read about. Come to think of it, the 50 page thing worked out quite well. Meh.Whatever. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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May 19, 2014
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May 21, 2014
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Kindle Edition
| ||||||||||||||||
| 0446890855
| 9780446890854
| 0446890855
| 4.11
| 118
| 1974
| Jan 01, 1979
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it was ok
|
Ah, Lilli Palmer. I wanted to read this memoir because I fell in love with Lilli Palmer's face a little when I watched Mädchen in Uniform. Who was thi Ah, Lilli Palmer. I wanted to read this memoir because I fell in love with Lilli Palmer's face a little when I watched Mädchen in Uniform. Who was this woman whose countenance, with every change of the camera angle, shifted between a likeness of Lucille Ball, Audrey Hepburn, and Julie Andrews? Who was this actress whose presence -- somehow both youthful and regal -- was so commanding that I was holding my breath when she was onscreen? Unfortunately, Lilli Palmer's memoir isn't nearly as exciting as that onscreen presence. The real problem with this memoir is that it's a lot of performance and very little substance. (Actresses writing books, anyone?) Lilli doesn't seem to get that readers want to know about her, and thus she's written a book about everyone but herself. That's problematic for readers like me who couldn't give a rip what it was like working with Clark Gable, partying with Gary Cooper, hosting Greta Garbo, entertaining Noël Coward, meeting Helen Keller, summering with Wallis Simpson and Prince Edward, etc. etc. etc. When Palmer isn't discussing her famous friends, she's entirely fixated on the career of her husband, Rex Harrison, while only permitting herself to reprint one or two of her own positive reviews. There are scant seconds of interesting moments -- referring to herself as a "fat" young woman when she couldn't have been more than 135 pounds; casually mentioning binge eating and swallowing handfuls of laxatives; revealing tidbits about the hot Latin lover she took after discovering her husband was boning a costar half his age; coming to terms with being a Jew returning to Germany 20 years after World War II -- but these are too few and far between. And what a disappointment. I kept waiting for the part where she'd tell us what the hell she was doing in a 1958 West German movie about lesbians. What was it like to make a movie that was 50 years ahead of its time? Was there critical or public backlash? What made her agree to do the film in the first place? But alas, we only learn that her costar gave her flowers on the first day of shooting. Sigh. Well. Okay, maybe she'll tell us what sparked her interest in doing The House that Screamed, another film with strong homosexual overtones and themes of torture, mental abuse, and incest. What was Lilli doing making a film like that...in good ol' Catholic Spain...in 1969? What brought on the desire? And what happened next? Again, we get nothing. Okay, so what was it like making The Counterfeit Traitor? Did Willaim Holden behave himself, or was he slipping the tongue on bad takes and falling down drunk between scenes? What was it like to play a woman whose grim fate so easily could have been her own? >>Cue to crickets chirping<< But Lilli, surely there must be something you're willing to give up to your readers? Did you really like doing all of those whitewashed American films, or were you into the darker and more complex things you were filming in Europe? Which male costar was the best kisser? What were you really feeling when you found out Rex Harrison was fucking Kay Kendall? Really, Lilli. Who are you? Well, that's one question you should never have to ask at the end of a memoir. Lilli Palmer was an amazing actress, a gifted painter, and she had one of the most captivating faces I've ever seen. But we can't all be perfect. Her book isn't worth reading. Not good. Not bad. Meh. Whatever. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jan 04, 2014
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Feb 14, 2014
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Dec 30, 2013
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Paperback
| ||||||||||||||
| 0316219266
| 9780316219266
| 0316219266
| 4.14
| 75,597
| Oct 15, 2013
| Oct 15, 2013
|
it was ok
|
The Everything Store: Jeff Bezos and the Age of Amazon is perfect for a specific group of people: job-seekers. If you're currently looking for work, p The Everything Store: Jeff Bezos and the Age of Amazon is perfect for a specific group of people: job-seekers. If you're currently looking for work, pick up a copy of this book, as it does convey a very important message. That is, never work at Amazon. And no, that message is not just for prospective employees who are thinking of braving the Jungle-esque conditions of the distribution centers. The message is for anyone thinking of joining any part of the company: never work at Amazon. If you're not from the Pacific Northwest and haven't heard the horror stories from former employees of the biggest churn 'em and burn 'em since Brown's slaughterhouse (complete with 16-hour stints at the office and 108 social media posts in 20 days), The Everything Store should offer up more than a few hints about daily life at the company: a "breakneck pace of ...work," where "meetings [are called] over the weekends," and employees are expected to "work smart, hard, and long." UGH. And don't expect to inquire about a better work-life balance; someone already asked about that at a sales meeting, and Bezos responded that "if you can't excel and put everything into it, Amazon might not be the place for you." Heh. I guess it's not the place for people who have lives in general. Moving on. Then there's Bezos himself (who I used to liken to Steve Jobs, but smarter), the guy who reinvented the way we read and continues to drive a Civic despite having more money than God. Perhaps I harbored a secret fantasy or two about seducing him for an Amazon log-in, but... never mind. The book makes him out to be an evil genius type, and really, that's probably not too far off the mark. Christ, if he gained a few pounds and carried a cat, he'd look like Dr. Evil, too. What's with Bezos, anyway? He owns Google and Amazon stock, so he can't be about the money. The book basically explains that Bezos, like most hyper-successful entrepreneurs, is one of those powerful types that loves working and only cares about winning. Those quoted in the book describe him as "impetuous and controlling" and "deranged," with "ice water run[nig] through his veins." Let's not forget that he has a history of "lashing out at executives who failed to meet his improbably high standards." Wow. Sounds like a blissful place to spend 8+ hours a day, especially with pressure like that coming from the top down. Again, if you're job-searching, this is a great book to read for learning just why you should never work at Amazon. Then again, you don't need the book for that: just read the reviews on Glassdoor by former employees. Better yet, ask around Seattle a little: you'll learn that the average Amazon employee turnover is 6-9 months, and you'll hear tales about people who worked so much and had so little free time that the only way to get personal items—you know, toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant?—was to order them from Amazon...and have them delivered to their desk...at Amazon. But I digress. For those of us not looking for work, what about the book? My guess is if you have a day job filled with meetings, sales reports, executives, and the latest from Wall Street, the last thing you want to unwind with after a hard day's work is a book about meetings, sales reports, executives, and the latest from Wall Street. Decent read, but I just couldn't handle it. Meh -- whatever. ***I do wonder how long my review will last on Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ now that Amazon owns the site. In my defense, I'd like to state that I downloaded my copy of the book from Amazon, I've followed the new rules regarding book reviews, and I'm still totally open to seducing Bezos in exchange for an Amazon log-in. Love ya, Jeff!*** ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Nov 10, 2013
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Dec 11, 2013
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Nov 10, 2013
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Hardcover
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| 0374219079
| 9780374219079
| 0374219079
| 2.79
| 1,730
| Feb 12, 2013
| Feb 12, 2013
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it was amazing
|
Changing this from 1 to 5 stars, based on the author's writing alone. The few relevant phrases from my original review should explain why quite easily
Changing this from 1 to 5 stars, based on the author's writing alone. The few relevant phrases from my original review should explain why quite easily. See below: "...beautiful writing" "adored...his cross country train trip, his reflections on D.H. Lawrence, his beautiful retelling of Sir Gawain" "A genius writer..." "I loved it and couldn't put it down. My God, what a writer." ** Obviously, I thought the book was fantastic, but I had some problems with it that I couldn't articulate without going into a goddamn frenzy.... My original review was victim-blaming garbage, and it was mean. Hate when I do this to amazing authors who have also been victims. Ugh, that's three times now. Sorry, James, you didn't deserve it. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jun 26, 2013
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Jul 05, 2013
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Jun 26, 2013
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Hardcover
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| 3.67
| 7,617
| Feb 26, 2013
| Feb 26, 2013
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it was ok
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There's a general rule about memoirs: In order to write a good one, one you have to be famous, have lived in close proximity to someone famous, or hav
There's a general rule about memoirs: In order to write a good one, one you have to be famous, have lived in close proximity to someone famous, or have survived something so unbelievable that it's better than fiction (as in, you can't make this shit up). If you're not famous and haven't exactly lived through, say, this or this, then really, you have no authority on anything, and nothing interesting to say. This is precisely the problem with Domenica Ruta's memoir. She comes from no place of authority to even be writing a memoir: she's barely over 30, she's not famous, she's not a survivor of anything 3 out of 4 people haven't dealt with, and her "recovery" happened so recently it could have been yesterday. This can't even qualify as one of those memoirs about surviving childhood adversity or rising above the ashes of despair because, shit, the girl has barely been sober long enough for me to take her seriously. And having no authority means your readers are left wondering what the hell the point of the story is. In essence, this is a lot of bitching combined with way-too-many-pages of soul-searching that goes from tedious to agonizing. But that's the thing. Like me, like my friends, like millions of others, Domenica is just another person who had some sucky things happen to her. I'm shocked by how similar she is to my girlfriends from college: Italian-American girls with thick Bahhhstin accents who came from blue-collar families in Peabody and Danvers, who survived traumatic childhoods and were the first of their lot to attend college. And what would those girls say about Ruta's story? Something akin to "You gadda bad ma'? You had it haaahhhd? Me too. So fackin' whaaaaat?" My sentiments exactly. The only difference between Ruta and the rest of us? Domenica Ruta broods. She wallows. And doesn't shut ... the fuck ... up. She doesn't seem to get the fact that having bad shit happen to you doesn't make you special, it just makes you normal. And that's boring. Two stars for the couple of well-written sections, but, overall... UGH. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Mar 2013
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Mar 03, 2013
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Mar 01, 2013
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Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||||
| 0385535635
| 9780385535632
| 0385535635
| 3.58
| 22,818
| Nov 20, 2012
| Nov 20, 2012
|
it was amazing
| With Heads in Beds: A Reckless Memoir of Hotels, Hustles, and So-Called Hospitality, something unprecedented has happened in the publishing industry: With Heads in Beds: A Reckless Memoir of Hotels, Hustles, and So-Called Hospitality, something unprecedented has happened in the publishing industry: they published a book by (wait for it!) a good writer. >>gasp<< I know. I'm as shocked as you are, really. While Heads in Beds is being marketed as Kitchen Confidential with a hotel slant, there's a marked difference between the two books: Anthony Bourdain is a cocky chef who also happens to know how to open a Word Doc on a PC, and thus gets his half-decent memoirs published. Jacob Tomsky, on the other hand? Goddamn, this kid can write. Don't believe me? Have a look for yourself. When describing his asshole manager, Tomsky writes that when his supervisor spoke, "it sounded as if his tongue were too swollen for his mouth, the words wet like a flopping fish." (Pen mightier than the sword and all that). And if you can find me a passage anywhere that more perfectly describes the ambivalence of living in New York City, I'll buy you a Coke: "I couldn't help but think back to New Orleans. Hadn't I been happier there? I was a nicer person there, right? How come I'd even stayed this long in New York? I might have already left the city, but in a way New York put a hex on me. The gravity is so strong here, that center-of-the -world feeling, it made leaving the city unfathomable." I feel you, bro. And then there is his description of New Orleans during Mardi Gras, which is nothing short of poetry. "I sat down ...watching the evening sun bleed from the streets, the city shifting into night, when it truly became New Orleans: the music, the constant festival, the smell of late evening dinners pouring out, layering the beer-soaked streets, prostitutes, clubs with DJs, rowdy gay bars, dirty strip clubs, the insane out for a walk, college students vomiting in trash cans, daiquiri bars lit up like supermarkets, washing-machine-sized mixers built into the walls...lone trumpet players, grown women crying, clawing at men in suits, portrait painters ... jazz music pressing up against rock and roll cover bands, murderers, scam artists, hippies selling anything, magic shows and people on unicycles, flying cockroaches the size of pocket rockets, men in drag ... the affluent, the beggars, the forgotten, and the soft spring air pregnant with every scent created by such a town." Whoa. Hey Norton people, are you reading? Anthologize this shit already. And don't worry. Despite the good writing and many references to classical philosophy and literature (and those references are correct, by the way, which in itself is surprising given that publishers crank out any old crap without bothering to check Cliff's Notes for accuracy), the book is hilarious (think of me when you get to the section about Room 212) and is bound to inspire a maniacal laugh or two. The hotel info? Just an added bonus. All of Tomsky's tactics are likely to score you upgrades and free alcohol the next time you stay in a hotel. Sweet! Hmmm, let's see.... Exceptionally good writing, humorous, and useful. Know what I call that? Un-put-down-able. I know. I still can't believe it. KICKED ASS. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Feb 10, 2013
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Mar 27, 2013
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Feb 10, 2013
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Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 0451233433
| 9780451233431
| 0451233433
| 3.84
| 336
| Aug 02, 2011
| Aug 02, 2011
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liked it
|
**Full (embarrassing) disclosure: I watched Guiding Light from the time I was 12 to about 14. Somehow, despite only having watched sporadically after
**Full (embarrassing) disclosure: I watched Guiding Light from the time I was 12 to about 14. Somehow, despite only having watched sporadically after that, I still know way too much about the show. I never followed Kim Zimmer's character that much, and only ended up reading this thing because it came up in a work discussion and I got curious.** Disclaimer over. Let's start. The basic deal is that Kim Zimmer played the wildly popular Reva Shayne on Guiding Light for almost as many years as I've been breathing. In the few episodes I did manage to catch Zimmer, her character was a loudmouth sceeching skwak who tossed herself in fountains (no shit), cried a lot, and was always falling prey to some sort of histrionic fit. That's what makes you a daytime superstar in America. Not too shocking, I guess. The authorial voice that Zimmer uses in this book is just as over the top and obnoxious as that of Reva Shayne. It's a lot like reading a long high school yearbook entry (written by one of those I-think-I'm-more-popular-than-I-am classmates whose bubbly writing takes up an entire page) or one of Zimmer's Emmy speeches: extended thank-yous, a lot of not funny TMI tidbits, and irritating one-liners. The thing is, though I was more than ready to rip Zimmer a new one, I can't do it. The actress -- who I always thought looked like an overweight, alcoholic, over-tanned smoker -- eventually ditches the annoying Reva voice and becomes candid about her weight gain, quitting smoking, and her alcohol abuse. She even dishes some delightful behind the scenes gossip about Guiding Light, the TV show that went from being an American institution to un-watchable trash that was only on at the nail salon. So, I can't hate Kim Zimmer or her book. Does that mean you should read it? Absolutely not. Much like the daytime television that made Zimmer famous, this book is a complete waste of time. Meh. Whatever. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Sep 06, 2012
|
Sep 11, 2012
|
Sep 06, 2012
|
Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 1451608659
| 9781451608656
| 1451608659
| 3.83
| 4,303
| Jun 05, 2012
| Jun 12, 2012
|
liked it
|
I first encountered Dominique Moceanu the same way everyone else did: on TV when she was a bright-eyed 14 year-old at the 1996 Atlanta Games. I still
I first encountered Dominique Moceanu the same way everyone else did: on TV when she was a bright-eyed 14 year-old at the 1996 Atlanta Games. I still remember the little tumbler with an eerie resemblance to Nadia, talking all about how in this moment her life was "absolutely perfect." That struck me so much that now, 16 years later, I still remember my first thoughts at hearing those words. I thought, "Well, that kid's either naive or lying." After reading this memoir, I suspect it was -- and still is -- a combination of both. This book reads like a blog, and that's probably because all of the information available here can be found on Dominique Moceanu's Wikipedia page. That's right. Her accusations of abuse at the hands of her father an the Karoyli's, the spat with Kim Zmeskal (don't worry, Dommi, you win, Kim Zmeskal sucks!), the eating issues, the drugs, the sister given up for adoption that Dominique didn't know existed until 4 years ago: it's already up on the Internet, and it takes about ten minutes to read. This book expands on none of it and just rehashes it all at a Sports Illustrated level of literacy. The only thing that did strike me as somewhat fascinating was the fact that by the end of the book, Dominique is all growed up and claiming to have a life of near perfection. Even the title of the book, "Off Balance" implies that her hardships are in the past and that her present life is balanced. How familiar. How like the 1996 Games when everything was "perfect." How naive. I suspect that we'll be hearing from Dominique Moceanu again in several years, perhaps in another memoir, and hopefully with juicer details about what she was covering up this time around. My prediction? It'll have something to do with the 20 or so times in this book that she felt the need to highlight in (embarrassingly excessive detail) the "stunning" and "absolute" and "perfect" physical beauty of every female mentor she encounters. *Interesting.* Good for a couple of hours of entertainment. Meh. Whatever. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Sep 2012
|
Sep 04, 2012
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Hardcover
|
La Petite Américaine
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Books:
auto-bios-etc
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my rating |
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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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| 3.86
|
it was ok
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Jan 04, 2016
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Jan 17, 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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| 4.51
|
really liked it
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Aug 25, 2015
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Aug 09, 2015
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|||||
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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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|||||
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| 3.85
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it was ok
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May 2015
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May 05, 2015
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|||||
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| 4.39
|
it was amazing
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Dec 27, 2014
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Jan 06, 2015
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|||||
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| 3.93
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it was ok
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Nov 21, 2014
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Nov 08, 2014
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|||||
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| 3.58
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did not like it
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Oct 06, 2014
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Sep 21, 2014
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|||||
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| 3.99
|
it was amazing
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Sep 17, 2014
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Sep 14, 2014
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|||||
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| 3.95
|
really liked it
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Jul 18, 2014
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Jul 19, 2014
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|||||
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| 3.77
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it was ok
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May 19, 2014
|
May 21, 2014
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|||||
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| 4.11
|
it was ok
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Feb 14, 2014
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Dec 30, 2013
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|||||
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| 4.14
|
it was ok
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Dec 11, 2013
|
Nov 10, 2013
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|||||
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| 2.79
|
it was amazing
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Jul 05, 2013
|
Jun 26, 2013
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|||||
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| 3.67
|
it was ok
|
Mar 03, 2013
|
Mar 01, 2013
|
|||||
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| 3.58
|
it was amazing
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Mar 27, 2013
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Feb 10, 2013
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|||||
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| 3.84
|
liked it
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Sep 11, 2012
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Sep 06, 2012
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|||||
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| 3.83
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liked it
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Sep 2012
|
Sep 04, 2012
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