You May Have Had Me at Hello, But...

I know, I know.  I owe you lovely readers my first book review of the new year.  It's coming soon!  In the meantime, though, here is something new for Brave New Bookshelves: a perfume review!

Yes, I found myself humming The Beatles' "Hello" shortly after picking up this sample.

I received the above sample, a Harvey Prince perfume called "Hello," in my December Birchbox.  The tagline, in a stroke of marketing genius plagiarism, is "You had me at Hello."

Sorry, Harvey Prince, but you're no Jerry Maguire.

 The inside description was sweet and romantic and tugged at my heartstrings.

• Meyer Lemon, Mandarin, Grapefruit -- because Citrus is nature's way of saying "Good Morning."

Love it.  "Good morning!"

• Forsythia -- because they are an early spring floral, a welcome sign of new beginnings and possibilities.

Love it.  I suddenly feel hopeful. 

• Plumeria -- because the flowers are traditionally used in Hawaiian leis, given to greet friends old and new.

Love it.  I was an anthropology major; an appeal to cultural traditions is a slam dunk with me.  Celebrating old and new friends -- how very Auld Lang Syne and appropriate for the New Year!

My camera was so excited, it found it difficult to focus.

So I tried it out.  The scent is actually quite lovely.  I am generally hard to please when it comes to perfumes, because I think most "floral" notes just smell like chemicals, but the citrus is bright and fragrant enough to make me smile.

I skimmed the rest of the text on the sample card, thinking I might have to check out how expensive a full-size bottle is, when the following phrase stopped me short.

 "We started Harvey Prince in dedication to our mother, and we craft exceptional fragrances that empower women to feel young, happy, slim, and beautiful."

Sorry, what?  This perfume is supposed to empower me to feel slim?  Maybe I'm in the minority here, but I have never once, not in all my nearly thirty years, smelled something that influenced my perception of my body size.  If such a thing existed, I'm pretty sure it would be marketed by Jenny Craig, not Harvey Prince.  So all I can conclude is that Harvey Prince thinks slimness is of a piece with youth, happiness, and beauty, and frankly, there's no empowerment in that for me.  Anyone can feel young, or happy, or beautiful -- but they don't want to risk marketing to fatties!  If you can't feel slim, begone!

I personally don't need to "feel slim" (which raises a quasi-ontological question about the nature of slimness: can one feel slim if one does not look slim?) to feel happy and beautiful.  Nitpickers may argue that beauty isn't really a feeling either, but because beauty can be defined in so many ways, I do believe one can feel beautiful even if one doesn't meet the traditional cultural standard for looking beautiful.

In any case, I'm irritated with Harvey Prince for telling me that I need to feel slim, and trying to sell me a perfume that will help me.

You may have had me at Hello, Harvey Prince, but you lost me at your limited understanding of empowerment. 

For Book Nerds, the Comfort Food of Books

Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore by Robin Sloan
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This book, for me, was like someone read all the same books as I have in the past few years, then sat down and wrote a novel combining elements from all my favorites.  There's a pinch of library adventure in the style of From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs Basil E. Frankweiler.  Then there's a touch of The Da Vinci Code (don't hate; it was fun to read), but without gruesome murders or the casting of disturbing aspersions on a major religion.  Face it, secret societies generally make for good times, and secret societies organized around methodical study of old books make for even better times.  There are joyful bits of Ready Player One gamer nostalgia and of The Magicians childhood fantasy novel nostalgia.  There's even a dash of Just My Type: A Book About Fonts-style font geekcitement.  Yes, I made up that word, and yes, I know none of you read Just My Type -- but that just underscores my point, that Robin and I are clearly kindred spirits.  And yes, since you [didn't] ask, I've decided I'm on a first-name basis with the author.

  

  

What tipped this from four to five stars for me was the deft handling of the inevitable confrontation between centuries-old books and the modern-day repository of all knowledge (also known as The Google).  I won't spoil it for you, but I got quite a kick out of it.

Pick this up when you need a fun and easy read that doesn't make you feel like you've picked up a disposable or trashy "beach read."  It's serious in setting but not in style; like mac and cheese made with pureéd cauliflower, it goes down easy but you don't have to feel guilty about it.

Delicious yet not entirely devoid of nutrients:  in other words, practically magic.

Dewey Decimal Dystopia

The Dewey Decimal System by Nathan Larson
My rating: 3.5 of 5 stars

Our setting: post-apocalyptic New York. "2/14" has overshadowed "9/11," although we don't know exactly what happened or why, just that most of the bridges are destroyed and the City is now a sparsely populated ruin of its former self.

Our protagonist: Dewey Decimal. So named because he plans to spend the rest of his days re-organizing the books in the New York Public Library. He gets his supplies from the DA, a recoil-inducing opportunist who sends Decimal out to get rid of inconvenient characters.  Librarian/hitman hybrids aren't common characters in dystopian fiction, but Decimal is more than just that. He's paranoid like Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory, he's a germophobe constantly thinking about using Purell, and he speaks Serbian, Ukrainian, and who knows how many other obscure languages. He also ascribes a mysterious importance to "the System," (thus completing the title's play on words).  The System -- which mandates, for instance, that he make only left-hand turns before noon -- makes Decimal's life pretty difficult, but he believes it keeps him safe.

This book is written like a pulp detective novel, but set in the dystopian future.

That pulp cliché, the oldest of the old, the most tired of all tired phrases comes to me. But I dig the truth at its core. When in doubt, look for the girl. Cherchez la femme.

That dystopian-pulp combination, like the OCD-librarian-hitman, took some getting used to, but it kept me entertained and was unlike anything I've read before. Neither of those is my favorite genre, but if one is yours, I recommend you check this out.

Never-Netherland

Netherland by Joseph O'Neill
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

A very few of you might remember my review of Swamplandia!, in which I lamented that I had to write a fairly negative review despite the sheer and impressive beauty of Karen Russell's prose.

 This review is the stunted offspring of that one.  Joseph O'Neill's prose is undeniably lovely, but where Russell lost me with a slightly too odd-and-fantastical plot, O'Neill simply left me trudging through endless paragraphs wondering where they were going (if anywhere).  If I wanted to place the fault with myself, perhaps I'd blame my lack of experience with -- or interest in -- cricket. A man holding his old cricket bat just does not evoke an emotional response the way, say, a young man with a gold helmet does.

Admit it, you get a little misty-eyed, too.

O'Neill, by contrast, can (and does) wax endlessly eloquent on the subject of cricket:

It's as if baseball were a game about home runs rather than base hits, and its basemen were relocated to spots deep in the outfield. This degenerate version of the sport...inflicts an injury that is aesthetic as much as anything: the American adaptation is devoid of the beauty of cricket played on a lawn of appropriate dimensions, where the white-clad ring of infielders, swanning figures on the vast oval, again and again converge in unison toward the batsman and again and again scatter back to their starting points, a repetition of pulmonary rhythm, as if the field breathed through its luminous visitors.

Beautiful, right?  But I think I'm just too American for cricket, because when a description of a game doesn't contain anything about plays or scores or even winners, I get bored.  We watch and play sports because we want our team to win, not because we want to admire the inherent beauty of the way colored uniforms stand out against the green field.  That beauty may well exist, and I am not saying O'Neill is wrong to draw attention to it, but I do think it's wrong to ignore the point of the sport.  In other words, the problem is not that this is a book largely about a sport.  The problem is that Netherland is not really about a sport at all.

These are some of the sports-based books I've read.  There's a pretty healthy mix of fiction and non-fiction, and it includes books about football, baseball, basketball, gymnastics, and running.  (Admittedly, I have yet to read a book about hockey.  But I did watch Mystery, Alaska -- does that count?)
            . . .  
What do all these books have in common?  Not much, other than the fact that they acknowledge that the essence of sport is competition.  Even in running, in which there are neither teams nor a point-based scoring system, you're competing against other runners (and your previous selves) for best time.  After reading Netherland, I could honestly believe that the point of cricket is to appreciate all the ways in which terrain can affect the path of the ball.

To be fair, I rather enjoyed the first 25% of the book, and the last 25% of the book wasn't bad.  Unfortunately, it's the middle 50% that really left an impression.  Our Dutch-born hero ruminates sadly but not very productively on the disintegration of his marriage, wanders the streets thinking about cricket, drives around with a guy who wants to start a cricket club, talks about cricket, and [drumroll] decides to get his driver's license.  That last part, of course, leads to all sorts of bureaucratic hijinks -- which, as we all know, are the least exciting hijinks in existence.  The big plot twist here is [dun-dun-DUN] a typo on one of his IDs!  Which he must get fixed -- get this -- before he can get his license!  

Are you on the edge of your seat?  Yeah, I wasn't either.

Even Famous, Rich, Skinny Women Have Self-Image Issues

I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman by Nora Ephron
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is a great companion book to Caitlin Moran's How To Be A Woman, which I reviewed here. The similarities are obvious; both books are compendia of humorous essays about what it means to be a woman. The differences, though, are so complementary as to seem practically intentional: Nora Ephron has the perspective of an older generation, Caitlin Moran the younger. Nora is New York City; Caitlin is London. Nora is (sometimes abashedly) dealing with the problems of a quite successful and wealthy woman; Caitlin spends much of her time recounting the poverty of her adolescence.

So between the two, you have reflections on how to be an older/younger, American/British, richer/poorer woman... and yet there is more overlap in their reflections than you might think.

In other words, it is not possible to discuss being a woman without mentioning bikini waxing.

The Amazing Adventures of Jewish Boys Who Draw Comic Books

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I am far from the first person to have loved this book, and I certainly won't be the last.  If you haven't read it yet, stop reading this review and go check it out from your public library.  It's been around for awhile, so it should be relatively easy to find.

 The concept itself is pretty simple: an American boy and his Czech cousin, an escapee from Nazi annexation, develop a comic-book superhero in the 1940s. But this story has some of the most wide-ranging and well-developed side plots I've ever seen in a novel.  We get to witness Josef's extensive training in magic, à la Houdini, and his eventual escape inside a coffin holding a giant corpse rumored to have been a golem.  We attend a cocktail party featuring Salvador Dali in a scuba-diving suit.  We experience a period of wartime service -- in Antarctica of all places -- complete with frozen corpses and trusty sled dogs, that could probably have stood alone as a separate book.

Wait, am I reading about comic-book heroes or sled dogs?

Mostly, though, I'm impressed by Chabon's style of writing; his words make impressive necklaces as he strings them together. For example, "they arranged him with the care of florists in front of a glass of bourbon and ice..."  Maybe it's the flower-arranging I've been doing on the side lately, but for me, this created an incredibly distinctive picture, especially for such a short phrase devoid of adjectives.  I can see them carefully arranging him on a barstool, adjusting his posture when he leans a little to one side, and the image evokes an impression of tenderness and love between the characters without it being put into words. The next time I have a bad day, I think all I want is for someone to arrange me with the care of florists in front of an alcoholic beverage.

If it's all the same to you, though, I'd prefer an Aviation to a glass of bourbon and ice, thanks.

Chabon's phrasing is impeccable, even when his powers of prediction are not:

Poor Judy Dark! Poor little librarians of the world, those girls, secretly lovely, their looks marred forever by the cruelty of a pair of big black eyeglasses.

Clearly, Michael Chabon did not anticipate hipsters.

My favorite hipster.  Also, meme + font joke = win.
Photo from fuckyeahhipsterariel.tumblr.com

Here is one more example of beautiful writing, though you should not need any further encouragement to pick up this book. This is Chabon's description of a child's drawing:

Although the man's parachute was far beyond his reach, the man was smiling, and pouring a cup of tea from an elaborate plummeting tea service, as if oblivious of his predicament, or as if he thought he had all the time in the world before he would hit the ground.

I want to name something Elaborate Plummeting Tea Service.   I really do.  It's probably too unwieldy for my entirely fictitious punk rock band, though.

How Not to Title a Book (but also, How to Sell Me a Book I Don't Want)

How Not to Read: Harnessing the Power of a Literature-Free Life by Dan Wilbur

I have not read this yet, but I want to tell you how I came to own it.  In hard copy.  New.

The Brooklyn Book Festival was this past Sunday, and I had a blast browsing dozens of booths.  Bookstores, publishers, reading groups, authors, and literary merchandisers were hawking their wares.

Tents, tents, and more tents... and a beautiful day!

In one of the bookstore tents, I picked up this book.  The eager guy behind the counter exclaimed, "That's my book! You should buy it!"

I read the subtitle, Harnessing the Power of a Literature-Free Life, and got flustered.  "Uh, I'm sorry, I don't really like the title.  It just, ah, makes me not want to read the book."

He looked confused, then slightly hurt, but recovered his eagerness. "It's okay!   It's not a serious title, it's a joke.  But I promise I'll work harder on the next book title!  And if you buy this one I'll sign it, and apologize in writing!"

I ask you, what choice did I have?   I felt terrible for insulting his title, and he was being really nice. On closer inspection, I realized the book is an expansion of his website, where he "improves" book titles, which seems fairly entertaining. For example:

The re-titled Gone Girl, to which I gave five stars).
This reader-submitted title is spot-on.  

Anyway, I caved. I paid $16 for a slim paperback. I almost never pay more than $10 for a book anymore, and then only on the rare occasions when a book isn't available for my Kindle through the BPL.

In other words:  Trick me into insulting your book, and I will buy it because I feel bad. I am, apparently, that much of a pushover.

Nevertheless, I stand by my original feeling.  If you write a book meant to appeal to readers (because who else is going to appreciate book-related jokes?), don't pick a title that turns readers off.   Readers do not want a guide to a literature-free life.  I understand (now) that it was meant to be funny/satirical, but there are so many people who don't read -- and don't want to read -- that I could easily believe the title is serious.  I mean, people disagree over whether The Colbert Report is supposed to be satire!  And remember that Congressman who thought The Onion was reporting real news?  To paraphrase an old quotation, satire just doesn't stand a chance against reality anymore.

Nevertheless, I'll end with this excellent bit of satire, compliments of the talented reader/commenter Mikey.

Bartlett's Not-So-Familiar Quotations

Bartlett's Familiar Quotations : A Collection of Passages, Phrases, and Proverbs Traced to Their Sources in Ancient and Modern Literature by John Bartlett

On Wednesday night, I showed up to my first Brooklyn Book Festival event: pub trivia focused on famous quotations.

You see, this year is the 175th anniversary of publisher Little, Brown & Company, and something like the 150th anniversary of their publication of Barlett's.  That is a lot of quotation publication.

Serious question, though: is there room for a hard-copy reference like this in the digital age? I understand they're developing a ten-dollar app, but how many people turn to an actual book when they want to look up a quotation?  For that matter, how many people are going to pay ten bucks for an app when Google is free?  Even though I retain some nostalgic affection for Bartlett's, I'm supremely uninterested in buying either the hard copy or the app.  At most, I'd pay some sort of subscription to be able to search it online, but even then, someone would have to make a pitch that it offers something more valuable than Google and the dozens of free sites I'll find there.

Back to the trivia.  I love trivia, but this was particularly great trivia because, let's face it, almost all famous quotations are book, film, or history-related, and bibliophiles like me have some advantage in those areas.

It looked for awhile like I was going to be a team of one, but an old law school classmate saved me from this ignominy.  He also contributed greatly to our third-place finish, which is more impressive than it sounds given that we were the smallest team.  He correctly identified Neil Young as the source of some quotable lyric, and for a bonus point, also named the song it was found in (Needle and the Damage Done, if you're curious).

The high point, by far, was winning one of the single-question lightning rounds, and thus earning a free drink.

Q. Who said, "When you come to a fork in the road, take it"?
A. OH MY GOD YOGI BERRA OH MY GOD I CAN'T BELIEVE I KNOW THIS ONE!!!

I can't believe my biggest triumph came from identifying a nonsense quotation by a sports icon.  However, I am not one to look a Blind Russian* in the mouth, so I celebrated my free drink even though it sadly was not earned by identifying an obscure but meaningful passage written by a literary giant.

*A Blind Russian is equal parts Bailey's, Kahlua, and vodka, served on the rocks. Basically, it's a White Russian with Bailey's instead of milk, and it is both astonishingly tasty and has magical powers. Just ask my law school roommate; that drink is responsible for our friendship.

I did have a quibble or two with the event, though.  I suppose in anything like this it's impossible not to overlook some extraordinarily quotable people, but I thought it was pretty absurd that there was not a single Mark Twain quotation.  (Fun fact:  our team name, Inspiring the Cabbages, came from a Mark Twain quotation.)  And, despite the fact that we were in the Franklin Park Beer Garden, Benjamin Franklin, -- the father of American proverbs -- was similarly snubbed.  Yet someone at Little, Brown clearly has a thing for Oscar Wilde, because he was the subject of three questions.

More on the Brooklyn Book Festival coming soon!  And, here's a bonus for those J.K. Rowling fans who read this far into the post -- Little, Brown is having a Pinterest-based contest to win:

The Casual Vacancy by J.K. Rowling

You can read the rules and enter the contest here before the book comes out on September 27.

Good luck, and don't forget to vote in the poll to help me decide what to read for Banned Books Week!

Spoons, Toons, & Booze

I recently discovered that Nitehawk Cinema in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, hosts a monthly event called Spoons, Toons & Booze. This event is basically an adult version of Saturday morning cartoons at a movie theater. Genius, you say? You don't know the half of it.

First, a ticket to the event itself ($11, if I recall correctly) includes an all-you-can-eat cereal buffet full of sugary favorites (and they even provide soy milk!). Lucky Charms, how could I have gone so long without your marshmallowy goodness?

Second, this theater serves actual food, so you can order Eggs Benedict to forestall the sugar crash. The method for ordering ingeniously allows you to avoid disturbing fellow movie-goers when you order: slips of paper and golf pencils are provided, so you write your order on a slip and place it in a little stand at the front of your table, and the waiter plucks it noiselessly away and returns with your order. No talking!

Third, each cartoon is chosen differently, with varying levels of audience participation. The first one was chosen by popular vote, after inviting a few shouted suggestions from the audience at large. This won:

(Searching for this image, I discovered there is an official Daria Halloween costume. What do you think, too obscure?)

Next, the winner of a brief cartoons-and-cereal-themed trivia contest chose Dexter's Laboratory.

Then, two members of the audience were invited to make impassioned arguments on behalf of their favorite cartoons, and the audience voted. In the battle between Darkwing Duck and Clone High,

Clone High won. For those of you not familiar with Clone High (I wasn't), it was a cartoon on MTV that aired for one season in 2002-2003. In the picture above, from left to right, are the high-school versions of Mahatma Ghandi, Cleopatra, Abraham Lincoln, Joan of Arc, and JFK. That should tell you all you need to know about the show, but really, it was much more entertaining than you'd think.

The final cartoon was chosen by secret ballot -- and you got one vote for each alcoholic beverage you'd consumed by that point. Oh, did I not mention that? One of the most amazing parts of this event is that you can order Cereal Shots. Yes, that's Bailey's to put on your Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Or Kahlua for your Cocoa Puffs.

In case you have a weak imagination, Bailey's on Cinnamon Toast Crunch is delicious. Go try it immediately.