Another Bullshit Night in Suck City

        On my commute to work the other day, I was frustrated by the glacial pace of the underground exodus. Normally, New Yorkers quite literally sprint up the stairs to get the hell out of the subway. I reached the second flight and spotted/smelled the culprit: a giant mound of human shit rested in the middle of the steps. *Happy Wednesday*. Now, this inconvenience could easily have been the present of some drunken frat boy on a dare. More plausibly, it was the product of a homeless(wo)man.

As someone who has a home (albeit a very cramped, poorly functioning one), it’s easy to look at homelessness as a binary fact: you’re either living on the streets or you’re not. After reading Nick Flynn’s award-winning and brilliantly titled memoir Another Bullshit Night in Suck City*, I learned that actually there is a great deal of fluidity within the homeless community. The scene within a shelter is continually in flux based on weather, familial support, occupation, pride, etc. While this seems self-evident, I do think our tendency to simplify and condense is so ingrained in us that we often look at a person in a shelter and immediately categorize them as dispossessed, even if that might just be a short-term situation.

The book is about a social worker who is reunited with his homeless father after years of estrangement. Nick was raised by a single mother while his absentee father wandered about Boston, occasionally sending his children eccentric letters that detailed some elaborate heist or shenanigan. Despite Nick’s understandable revulsion towards the man, he finds himself following in the adrift footsteps of his paternal legacy. They are both aspiring writers who cannot find a foothold in that industry. Their lives are shaped by drugs and alcohol; every activity is laced with the urge to suppress. From an outsider’s perspective, it appears that Nick and his father are on parallel tracks. Subjectively, Nick is disturbed by the notion that he’s destined to fall short of societal and self-expectations. He wonders if failure is part of his lineage—if indignity is in his blood. Once he enters his early twenties, Nick starts working at a shelter, so ironically, the homeless pay his rent. He vaguely knows that his dad lives on the streets; clearly, although he is disgusted by his father, he is also in some ways deeply drawn to him. His choice to remain within a scene in which his dad could pop up at any moment, like a “drunken jack in the box”, opens up Pandora’s psychological box (Flynn, 225). There is fear and unease associated with the possible confrontation of his demons. Is he concerned for his father’s well being? Does he need closure for his years of fatherlessness? Is he simply curious about the madman being the letters? Does he have a desire to affirm the differences between him and his father—a way to negate the similarities by pinpointing and refining what they are exactly? In some ways, his dad is a compass that allows Nick to weave in and out of these questions, sentiments, and self-reflections. A compass with the magnets all screwed up if you will.

Sure enough, his dad eventually shows up as a patron of the shelter. Nick reveals, “some part of me knew he would show up, that if I stood in one place long enough he would find me, like you’re taught to do when you’re lost. But they never taught us what to do if both of you are lost, and you both end up in the same place, waiting” (Flynn, 24). With this new development, there is some unsettling role reversal—he’s taking care of his dad even though his dad never took care of him. They’re “living together” in adulthood rather than childhood. What an odd and disorienting experience—and keep in mind that this is a memoir, this twilight-zoney business actually happened. Nick ponders the implications of their new relationship. He sees a homeless guy on a bench and wonders, “If this is my father, if I leave a sandwich beside his sleeping body, does that become a family meal? Is this bench now our dinner table?” (Flynn, 248).

So, the storyline of this book is exceptional, but is it expressed well? Nick Flynn is primarily a poet and this profession certainly suffuses through his tragically beautiful memoir. It is definitely a heavy read, but it’s something that feels somehow necessary—both for him to put his feelings into words and for me to read and attempt to empathize. It is a brutally honest disclosure of his search for an essential self. He is an introspective guy who is profoundly shaped by his experiences of fatherlessness and unique re-fathering. Some teachers advise writers to “show, not tell”—Nick Flynn shows and tells. I would LOVE to hear him do a reading because I imagine his words would sound poignantly lyrical aloud.

Even though the memoir’s tone is generally somber, Nick is cynically funny throughout. After a particularly heart-wrenching family event, someone asked him how he was doing. Nick mockingly remarks, “He might as well ask, “Besides that, Mrs. Lincoln, how’d you like the play?” (Flynn, 156). Lawlz. His dark humor and creativity augment rather than detracts from his message. He punctuates his story with imaginative analogies or poetic sidetracks and it effectively tugs at the heartstrings. For instance, he spends one chapter (four pages) just listing different words/phrases that mean “drunk”. Additionally, oftentimes he quotes his father or describes an episode within his father’s life. While Nick did investigate his father’s factual history to some degree, these depictions are mostly retrospective superimpositions by Nick—they are expressions of what he imagines his father's thoughts were and what his destitute situation must have felt like. It is a blend of nonfiction and fiction, and that is where his talent really shines through.

A sign of a good book is when certain passages haunt you for months, even years to come. I read this memoir a few months ago for a book club with my friends you’ve encountered in the past—Matt and Will—and I’m only just now humpday-hardbacking it! I was reluctant for so long because I felt that my review wouldn’t do it justice—it’s such an intense story with ties to an endemic socioeconomic issue. One chapter that has spoken to me since I put down the book is titled “Ham”. It consists of an intricately well thought out analogy to the biblical Noah. It is a remarkably applicable comparison of fathers with grandiose ideas and sons grappling with the hopelessness of an inevitable inheritance and poor predestination. Like father, like son. That’s not great when your dad is a homeless, penniless, loveless, drunkard. Luckily, my dad is a loving, good-souled hunter with an impressive beard and a passion for dachshunds. Hopefully, I'll end up looking something like this:

During his upbringing, both Nick and his father loosely held on to the idea that writing is a noble profession that justifies and maybe even necessitates struggle. After all, “to be a poet digging ditches is very different from being a mere ditch digger” (Flynn, 15). They inwardly thought that maybe homelessness isn’t so bad because it’s an *experience*-- it contributes to an interesting personage and provides material to write about. Being a struggling writer doesn’t mean you’re not talented… you’re just *undiscovered*. Finally, with this memoir, Nick Flynn is discovered. He’s redeemed. And this is a very aggressively beautiful transformation to witness. All in all, I give Another Bullshit Night in Suck City 5 out of 5 camel humps. Read it and perhaps you’ll have enough good luck to not encounter shit on your commute.

*Flynn, Nick. Another Bullshit Night in Suck City. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2004. Print.

My Booky Wook: A Memoir of Sex, Drugs, and Stand-Up

            “It might seem a bit reckless to be picking up drugs on the way to Heathrow, but my need for a regular supply of narcotics would not be constrained by the exigencies of international air travel. I generally traveled with drugs up my arse in the belief that should customs officers decide to pursue this unsavory line of inquiry my day would be ruined and the discovery of crack or heroin couldn’t make it much worse” (First-Class Twit, section 24). Here you have an apposite excerpt from Russell Brand’s 2010 memoir My Booky Wook: A Memoir of Sex, Drugs, and Stand-Up*. An eccentric celebrity who has been to rehab for sex addiction and drug dependency wrote about the outlandish junkie-riddled escapades of his formative and young-adult years and it landed on the New York Times bestseller list. Why am I reading and reviewing a book by Brand? Well, aside from the fact that he has phenomenal hair and I like Forgetting Sarah Marshall, I enjoy having a *back-pocket book*. This is a book(y wook) that I can occasionally whip out when I’m wine-buzzed and I don’t have to take too seriously. If you’re wearing cargo shorts, you can also have a *side-pocket book* but then you’d have to cope with the indignity of owning and sporting cargo shorts in public.  

The memoir popped up under my Oyster books account recommendations--an online book source that I reference in my Your Movie Sucks review. I thought it fell perfectly into the category of books-I-want-to-read-but-don’t-necessarily-want-to-buy. Honestly, his talent surprised me. He dabbles in impressive poetry, references philosophers I personally admire, shares entertaining stories, and knows when to be retrospectively contemplative about his destructive exploits. Basically, it’s a tour through the crazy shit he’s done in his life (your classic prostitute, substance-abuse, self-harming, unemployment cocktail) distilled through a comedic lens. You learn about his early misogynism—like when he broke up with one of his infinite number of exes, returned the key to her apartment, and then used a clandestine copy he had made to go back and steal things when she wasn’t home (Is This a Cash Card I See Before Me, section 18). You hear about the concessions he made, the boundaries he crossed, and the sinking environment he stepped into when his heroin addiction reached its heights. You discover how he latched on to comedy as a means to weasel out of depression and keep his head above the murky waters of despair. And all while maintaining that impeccable mane!

Throughout his book(y wook) is a thread of introspection as lively as the threads of his bohemian-styled wardrobe. He acknowledges that he is a grandiose character, admitting that he treats life as a never ending performance. Brand has never been one to color in the lines or stick to the script. As a youngster, this took a self-destructive turn; the search for identity and “absolute self” was precarious because he constantly adopted different personas that varied depending on his audience at the time. The memoir has a dark tinge to it that reads breathlessly honest—while comedy is a valuable distraction from “the tyranny of life’s minutiae”, the need to resourcefully unwind is very palpable for him (First-Class Twit, section 24). He says, “You might have a glass of wine, or a joint, or a big delicious blob of heroin to silence your silly brainbox of its witterings, but there has to be some form of punctuation, or life just seems utterly relentless” (April Fool, section 1). Now, purportedly sober for 13 years, he relies on creative career endeavors rather than a narcotic abyss.

My typical experience with memoirs is once again confirmed: they’re amusing, light-hearted, and usually contain a dash of philosophical extrapolation to render the author less vain and the reading worth your time (see: How to Lose Friends and Alienate People, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, Let’s Pretend This Never Happened, Not That Kind of Girl, and Are you There Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea for more of my reviews on memoirs). It’s good, but it’s not bloody brilliant. He’s a charming, dramatic Englishman who is self-deprecating but certainly not self-effacing. You’ll likely enjoy it, but it’s not jaw-dropping spectacular, and its words won’t resonate for days afterward.  Still, truthfully, I like the guy. He’s human, he’s interesting, and he’s exposed. And not just in the literal sense, as when he shares this dashing pic with us: 

I see him in a different light now and I respect his intelligence, which I suppose was a motivating factor behind him writing the book(y wook) in the first place. Balancing his wit and intellectual aptitude with the drawbacks seemingly inherent in the memoir genre, I give My Booky Wook 3 out of 5 camel humps.

*Brand, Russell.  My Booky Wook: A Memoir of Sex, Drugs, and Stand-Up. New York: It Books, 2010. https://www.oysterbooks.com/read/rTPk65t6PmYXgujiC3YSVa/dGV4dC85NzgwMDYxOTcxMzk2X0RlZGljYXRpb24ueGh0bWw=

Naked Lunch

Take a second to reflect on the most appallingly miserable thing you’ve ever had to do. Got it? Exponentiate that by twenty.  We’ll call that incident “A”. Now, think about a situation in which you or a close friend felt profoundly degraded. Exponentiate that by twenty. We’ll call that incident “B”. Finally, multiply “A” by “B”. This monstrosity of a result is no match for the unbearable experience of trudging through William S. Burroughs’ Naked Lunch*. I wouldn’t even call what I had to do “reading”. Before I unload a list of reasons supporting its gratuitous intolerability, let me make a few things perfectly clear:

1)               It’s not that I can’t handle vulgarity. I’m like kind of a gross person and I certainly don’t expect all of my books to reside on a pedestal of propriety. I appreciate Bukowski (just recently purchased Post Office—can’t wait). I’m not easily offended and I categorically oppose all forms of censorship and book banning. Obscene language/content does not faze me nor is it the core of my complaint.

2)               I don’t shy away from books about drugs. Much merit can be found in drug literature—from Huxley to Kerouac to Hunter S. Thompson, and everything in between. You can talk negatively about drugs, speak positively about drugs, be on drugs, etc. and create something of artistic significance.

3)               I can enjoy novels regardless of the existence of a clearly defined plot. Naked Lunch is experimental in that each page can (theoretically) be read individually, at random. Certainly, there is no linear narrative. I so badly want to relish in that unbound, vignette prose. I’m so incapable of doing so because this is not the product of a respectable author. It’s the haphazard garbage of a heroin addict—quite literally. In 1951, he accidentally shot his wife in the head while aiming for a glass that she balanced atop. That’s cute. But remember—this book isn’t bad because the author was high all the time. The only reason Naked Lunch receives any attention is because it’s jarring. Personally, I don’t automatically assume that because something has shock-value, it’s worthy of my time. This man is talking out of his ass. Of course that’s going to grab attention, but that does not necessarily implicate that his work is reputable literature.

Burroughs (1914-1997) came to fame in the Beat generation. I desperately want to love the authors of that era because their subject matter sounds so beautiful and free. But they disappoint! Hunter S. Thompson wrote with the same laissez faire attitude and then added a layer of profundity to his writing. He recounts his putting-around but also commentates—he’s simultaneously within that world and without. Notably, Thompson hated Kerouac—or so my friend Callie told me over a glass (or four) of wine, and I’ve taken that to be an absolute fact ever since.  Hunter S. Thompson disliked Jack Kerouac, tell all of your friends!

           

After a while of reading and re-reading, questioning my own sanity and wondering if some obscure, deeper meaning was eluding me, I realized that a clever writing style couldn’t entirely make up for lack of substance. This shitty excuse for a book reads as if a 15-year-old sadistic, sex-addled junkie stumbled upon a thesaurus and threw some big words into his incomprehensible orgiastic fantasy for good measure. Does this seem remotely on par with the writing skills of his generation? Despite my reservations on Kerouac, I recognize that he was a very talented writer, perhaps because he adhered to a hazy morality. His words still read like actual literature and not something that belongs in a trashcan. Kurt Vonnegut once declared, “Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing of a novel or a play or a poem is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae or banana split.” Good point, but I don’t like chocolate or bananas. In my further defense, he also said, “Literature should not disappear up its own asshole, so to speak.”

Think I’m exaggerating on the book’s repulsiveness? Instead of underlining phrases that speak to me as I typically do, I was only able to mock Naked Lunch and highlight the most ridiculous statements to share with you all. Because I suppose I’m part sadist too, here are two particularly cringe-worthy excerpts. Full disclosure that these are NSFW:

“Johnny extracts a candiru from Mary’s cunt with his calipers…he drops it into a bottle of mescal where it turns into a maguey worm…He gives her a douche of jungle bone-softener, her vaginal teeth flow out mixed with blood and cysts” (Burroughs, 84).

THE ENTIRE THING IS LIKE THAT. Here’s some more:

“The boy crumples to his knees with a long “OOOOOOOOH,” shitting and pissing in terror. He feels the shit warm between his thighs. A great wave of hot blood swells his lips and throat. His body contracts into a foetal position and sperm spurts hot into his face. The Mugwump dips hot perfumed water from alabaster bowl, pensively washes the boy’s ass and cock, drying him with a soft blue towel.” (Burroughs, 63).

I’m immediately reminded of the “nope, nope, nope” running-away Bitmoi. You’re probably still wondering what the book is about. I HAVE NO IDEA. I truly could not tell you. What you see above is what you get, and I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight if I didn’t award this literary joke 0 out of 5 camel humps.

*Burroughs, William. Naked Lunch. Paris: The Olympia Press, 1959. Print.

East of Eden

     Humblebrag: It’s not uncommon for people to balk at my love of literature. On the other hand, as my generation emerges from the high-school-mandated-who-gives-a-shit-about-reading phase, there are plenty of people who appreciate the pleasures associated with a good book. I often muse about the psychological underpinnings behind why I love reading so much. There is something unutterably satisfying about being sucked into a tale and experiencing a life that is not your own. That is one of the reasons why Alice in Wonderland has always been my favorite “children’s story”.  Its narrative lends readers a transfixing feeling of fantasy that reaches a step beyond pure entertainment. It is also one of the reasons why John Steinbeck is such a respected author of storytelling gold. The guy knows how to capture and retain your attention. No relation to the musician Beck, unfortunately. “Girl” is a damn good song.

     Many of you have read Of Mice and Men--which is a wonderful novella-- but to spice it up, I chose a work slightly off the beaten path: East of Eden*. This book is not for the faint of heart—my copy is a cool 691 pages. Still, his spellbinding account of two families in twentieth-century Salinas Valley, California kept me genuinely interested throughout. Of course, I was most intrigued by the cover...

What is this absurdly-mustached man sitting uncomfortably in a field brooding over? Why is this suspicious looking woman creepily staring at him from a short distance?  And if there is an umbrella involved, it’s probably way too hot for that overdone getup. How pissed off is the horse in the background that he has to lug around these irrational owners? Obviously, I have more questions than I have answers, but if a book looks like this, best believe I’m gonna buy it.

     I’m always on the hunt for good, sturdy classics with eternal themes; they are voices from the past that never lose relevancy. With a title like East of *Eden*, I assumed it would be suffused with religious contemplations. Naturally, that is the case, but religious-wary readers-- don’t be put off! It’s mostly concerned with Christian allegory and how Old Testament men and women can be used to implicate dispositions of good and evil and everything in between. Steinbeck crafts his characters so meticulously that every relation, every action, and everything they say points to something deeply ingrained within their personality. For instance, within the Trask family, there are two generations of brothers: Charles and Adam as one and Caleb and Aron as another (Adam’s sons). Additionally, two motherly figures are involved named Cathy and Abra. Notice any resemblance to Cain and Abel? The biblical story goes something like this: Cain and Abel are Adam and Eve’s sons, which means they’ve inherited the consequences of original sin. Both boys bring an offering to the Lord based on their particular beginning-of-the-world career choices. God rebuffs Cain’s and smiles favorably upon Abel’s. Understandably, Cain gets pissed at Abel and his anger takes the form of murder. The Almighty confronts Cain, probably because there’s like four people in the world at this point and he’s looking hella shady, and casts the boy out of his sight and into the “east of Eden” (Steinbeck, 308). But first, God marks Cain so that no one can kill him. Perhaps the Lord really just wanted to embarrass Cain with a scar and make it difficult for him to find a lady friend. Regardless, even though Cain is homicidal, God preserves him. His scar face lived long enough to spawn while Abel rolled over in his grave wishing he had given God a shittier gift.

     That ending isn’t easy to digest—it skews our sense of justice. Steinbeck taps into that distortion and tries to work out how rejection, wrath, crime, revenge, guilt, respect, and love intertwine with one’s moral compass. His intense focus on man’s ethical temperament gives us insight as to how Steinbeck viewed himself and how he felt about his work. He explained, “Humans are caught—in their lives, in their thoughts, in their hunger and ambitions, in their avarice and cruelty, and in their kindness and generosity too—in a net of good and evil. I think this is the only story we have… there is no other story. A man, after he has brushed off the dust and his chips of his life, will have left only the hard, clean questions: Was it good or was it evil? Have I done well—or ill?” (Steinbeck, 475). No worries, John, you did well with this book.

     The general takeaway: man has a choice to triumph over wickedness and there is glory associated with that victory. The majority of the sinfulness in East of Eden stems from dishonesty. Mendacity is tantamount to murder because when a lie is uncovered, it shatters a beautiful Eden-esque world that was originally intact. What someone once thought to be true is killed. Money, acquired purely or impurely, can often be a driving force for lies. When that dough is passed down, children can unknowingly become heir to a set of falsehoods. Moreover, parents are like Gods to their offspring; so, if (when) they’re caught in a lie, instability ensues. The kid not only questions why his parent is capable of duplicity but also wonders if he himself is skilled at that kind of deceit. Is it in his blood? Even all the way from Cain? Steinbeck’s story is long because it needs to be. He’s showing readers an extended line of inheritance of good AND evil qualities and how those fluctuate between generations.

     As you can see, this novel is carefully constructed. Anyone who can weave a profound and relatable thread through a story the way Steinbeck does deserves praise. Similar to Dostoevsky, Steinbeck clearly strives to sift through the human psyche when it’s faced with crime and depravity. Like his nineteenth-century Russian counterpart in The Brothers Karamazov, he is enmeshed in the story as the narrator. He reveals that he is part of the generation that follows East of Eden, the great-grandson of Samuel Hamilton (akin to the biblical prophet), a major character. With this knowledge, we can deduce that some of the inheritance-implications trickle down to him. I find the whole inside-but-also-outside perspective intimate as if Steinbeck were telling this story about his ancestors to me in his living room. Furthermore, as a woman, I enjoy how we are portrayed in the book. Eve was Adam’s undoing with the apple thing after all, mwhaha. He introduces strong female characters that prove clever in both their deception and righteousness. Overall, if you’re looking for an older novel that has stood the test of time, look no further. I give it 4 out of 5 camel humps and now that I have developed a fondness for Steinbeck, I can’t wait to try The Pearl.

*Steinbeck, John. East of Eden. New York: The Viking Press, 1952. Print.

How to Lose Friends and Alienate People

            I’m lounging on the patio of a Venice Beach boardwalk restaurant, reading, writing, and sipping on a local Los Angeles pale ale. You’re at work right now, so I’m having a better time than you. I’ll be in L.A. for two days before losing my money/sanity/dignity in Las Vegas with three friends from college. Still, my MO all weekend is naturally to lose friends and alienate people.

           

            I would say thank God for the handy how-to-- How to Lose Friends and Alienate People* --if it weren’t for the fact that the memoir was so meh. The author, Toby Young, is better known for this book than for the half-hearted writing career the book was based on. In it, he unveils the waspy drama associated with working for the glossy, celeb-centered magazine Vanity Fair. Originally from Britain, he becomes disillusioned by New York’s inevitable indebtedness to the rich and famous. This wasn’t always the case—Toby had aspirations of hard-hitting journalism beholden to no one, much less the wonton vapidity of the upper echelon. Alas, the social Darwinism of the Big Apple overpowered his longing for objective profundity. He once romanticized the role of a New York Writer, a picturesque vision of exposing controversy left and right without losing stride. After a few years stateside, his intellectually confident gait whittled into a snail-paced slither. 

Is this a surprise to anyone who has ever opened a magazine nowadays? The memoir is 330 pages, half of which I found myself saying no shit. The guy worked for a powerful, wealthy, glamorous, and well-connected company and then was shocked by their contemptuous, gratuitous actions. Granted, How to Lose Friends and Alienate People was published in 2002 and is a little outdated. I might underappreciate his references because they’re before my time. But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see the relationship between money and influence.  That being said, I did enjoy the tidbit about celebrities’ wariness to eat in public for fear of being photographed. Toby claims that on Oscar night, a hangry line of A-list stars pack the McDonald’s drive-thru in their limousines (Young, 105). Roll the window up, sir, I need to pound a Big-Mac alone in the dark while sporting an evening gown (which let’s get real, sounds amazing).

In all, the book is 90% uninteresting fluff, 10% comic relief. The memoir is predicated on the idea that Toby is funny when unfortunately—for the most part—he’s not. You get a keen sense that he’s fumbling through life, making one irrecoverable mistake after another. That’s fine—I just ordered some fireball on tap and have suffered acute regret ever since. But watching a guy not play his cards right career-wise isn’t automatically hilarious. Just as Roger Ebert says, throwing a fat guy in a movie doesn’t make the movie funny…the fat guy needs to do something funny goddamn it! I’m gonna need more than just a few sporadic chuckles in a memoir so dependent on hilarity.

In Toby’s defense, he expressed a few thoughtful insights. For instance, he gave a brief but scathing review on “political correctness” within the American liberal education system based on his experiences at Harvard. He complained that cultural relativism was pushed to the extreme, forsaking the possibility of moral truths by making any/every point of view viable and laudable. He opined that students merely resisted offending anyone when they maintained that no one was “right”. In turn, this led to diluted discourse. Additionally, he quoted Tocqueville, a French philosopher who argued against the United States’ conception of democracy. He agreed with Tocqueville that as a whole, Americans are subject to the “tyranny of the majority”—not truly liberated because the mainstream rules (Young, 20). He went on to condemn our version of meritocracy; we think that we are successful because we earned it and we deserve it. We falsely convince ourselves that all of us start on an even playing field, ignoring the fact that we have essential resources that others lack. We revere a strong work ethic above all, snubbing those below us because “they’re just not working hard enough”. Toby notes that social mobility in Britain is more fluid and Brits who benefit from the aristocratic system are more likely to recognize their class-advantages and donate to the less-fortunate than Americans who assert that the poor remain poor by sheer lack of willpower. He states, “America is a faux meritocracy in which abhorrent levels of inequality are justified by an appeal to a principle of social justice that, however sacred, has yet to be implemented. To use a baseball analogy, America’s most successful citizens were born on third and think they’ve hit a triple” (Young, 241). As you can see, British-American comparisons run abound. In this case, I absolutely agree.

Lastly, he criticized the notion of the Holy Zeitgeist. During his time at the magazine, he was surrounded by people who blindly worshipped fashion fads—people who believed that “the next big thing” was dictated by a divine, invisible hand.  New York, as a hub of cultural renaissance, was a kind of Mecca that Toby could not willfully get behind.

While these three redeeming factors-- an argument against cultural relativism, a reconsideration of how democracy intertwines with liberty, and a denunciation of a deified fashion industry—are certainly thought provoking, they comprise only a very small portion of the memoir. I would much rather hear more about those ideas and less about how Anna Wintour wears sunglasses indoors. Overall, Toby is an honest guy, eager to throw everyone he worked with under the bus (including himself), but it doesn’t quite move past the realm of superficiality. As a result, I give it 2 out of 5 camel humps. There are some tiny pellets of potential there that don’t come to fruition, so don’t waste your time.

*Young, Toby. How to Lose Friends and Alienate People. Boston: First Da Capo Press, 2002. Print.