Book Review: Random Homeless Guy

This is a review of a new book written by the homeless guy who sells newspapers (that are normally free) while directing traffic at an intersection (that already has efficient, working traffic lights and crosswalks).

But Random Homeless Guy’s book does not concern itself exclusively with his everyday life committing newspaper fraud and stopping cars for no reason. Of course, it does offer a brief memoir of these latter days, but it can best be categorized as an acutely self-conscious piece of metafiction. The narrator repeatedly refers to himself as author and artist and to the process of writing a book, exposing the artifice of his relationship to the story, and opening broad new worlds of reality in the mind of the common reader.

For example, he refers to his literary agent, a middle-aged woman he’d like 'to [unprintable] in the [even more unprintable] with a [yet again, unprintable].' The first three pages are devoted to this highbrow rant against an increasingly irrelevant publishing industry, while the next 200 seem to be pages torn from an old paperback of Little Women. The final half of the volume is just coupon circulars stuck together with mashed potato gravy, while the binding is made of pigeon feathers and banana peals.

On the whole, the author’s first attempt is a disgusting piece of filth that is most likely responsible for your humble reviewer’s coming down with a case of avian flu. In other words, it will probably win the National Book Award.

Book Review: Sarah Palin

This is a review of former VP-candidate Sarah Palin’s memoir of the 2008 election campaign, It Was Nice to be Out of Alaska. I know what you’re thinking: that book hasn’t been written yet. Well, that would be a problem for lesser reviewers. As you already know, it's possible to review movies I haven’t even seen, and don’t ever intend to see. Is Tom Cruise wearing an eye patch in the preview? Is he still Tom Cruise? Yes and yes. Well, then the rest can be interpolated. In this case, is Sarah Palin an epsilon semi-moron? See, now you’re getting it.

You might think the Barracuda’s memoir is filled with a mix of cute little folk-isms and divisive rednecky slogans, but you’d be wrong. On the whole it’s a scathing indictment on our political system and a biting critique of our national character. For example, on page 23 (about a quarter way down the page), she writes, ‘…and the media got in the way of my plans to bring Jesus to Alaska. As the sun rises in the liberal East... etc, etc... egghead... etc, etc... maverick... etc, etc... like a flash of pure ecstasy across the sky.’ What she’s talking about there is not so much religion or even the media, but the lack of a coherent strategy to reduce the influence of money in politics, as well as the indifference and complacency of the average American voter. You’ll find a similar kind of ruthless rationality on page 1,637 (at the end of the last paragraph, 3-1/2 lines up from the bottom), where she writes, ‘Katie Couric is a poopoo-head.’ Eloquent, concise, painfully revealing. And then there are some telling personal vignettes, like when Todd forgets to wear a raincoat in 2007.

In the last line of the book on page 2,042, after all the policy wonkishness and rigorous analysis, the Governor betrays a hint of her burning ambition: ‘Homegirl has some street cred now, right? Am I right? Huh? Who’s with me?’ And we all know what that means. Palin in 2012. Write it down.

So, if you’re looking for an absorbing read and you want to re-live the 2008 election because it just wasn’t long enough, or if you’re looking for some ‘elite opinion’ served up cold and icy, this book is for you.

Next up, I Better Get Paid for This F***ing Book: The Rod Blagojevich Story.

Bookstore Fatties

I went to a local bookstore today to enjoy a latte and some free reading on an opulent couch near the ‘New Age’ section. As long as Deepak Chopra books didn’t fly off the shelves and attack me, I didn’t think it would do me any harm. That is, not until an unkempt fat lady and her buck-toothed daughter started chattering behind me and trawling the shelves for what they deemed wisdom. ‘I’m looking for something Buddhisty,’ said the ugly child. I felt like standing up, pointing a hard finger at her mother’s large, sloppy torso, and saying, ‘You were raised by something Buddha-like.’ But alas, I said nothing. I’m such a wuss.

Another time in the same bookstore, another obscenely protuberant woman sat on a couch adjacent to mine. She was breathing heavily and reading a large yellow hardcover whose title I couldn’t quite see. I was sitting near the ‘Self Help Books’ section this time. (They don’t put the comfy couches near the readable books section.) At one point, I heard the couch below her moan as she applied herself to the task of standing up. She did so -- with all the facility of a rhinoceros filling out a crossword puzzle -- and wobbled over to the little café. She came back a few minutes later not with coffee, but with a giant plate of mini-scones and cinnamon cakes, and as she indelicately reapplied her great mass to the seat of the couch, I was able to see the title of the book she was reading. It was: Does This Clutter Make My Butt Look Fat? -- I’m not even kidding. Apparently she hadn’t gotten to the chapter where it tells you not to eat giant plates of mini-scones and cinnamon cakes. Maybe they should move that part closer to the beginning. I’ll write to the publisher.