Review of Lowboy by John Wray

LowboyLowboy by John Wray

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A real time look into schizophrenia, Lowbow neither romanticizes nor demonizes the disease or its sufferer. Will Heller is a 16-year-old paranoid schizophrenic wandering the New York subway system on a mission to save the world. His mother Violet and detective Ali Lateef tail him around the city, under and above ground trying to bring him home.

Wray uses his multiple points-of-view brilliantly, eking out information as the story develops, giving us this lovely slow reveal of the situation as characters let things slip, bit by bit. His range of voices is impressive and the language goes from tense to lyrical without trying too hard.

Mental illness is one of those topics that can result in a story that’s tired, weak or maudlin, but Wray treats his characters right and avoids the obvious pitfalls. Against my better judgment I sympathized with Will and the other troubled, beautiful people in the book.

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All the trappings of modern life

Here is a list of housewares and furniture I have accrued over the past 8 years:

  • 3 sofas
  • 3 beds (twin, queen, full)
  • 5 bookshelves
  • hundreds of books
  • 2 comfy chairs
  • 2 kitchen islands
  • 3 clothes bureaus
  • Countless dishes, cookware and other thingamabobs

Here are the things I currently have:

  • bed
  • footstool
  • bookshelf
  • about 35 books
  • set of wine glasses
  • 3 plates and a bowl

You’re welcome, curb-hunters of the world! It’s moving time again.

I move all the time

As I prepare to move house IRL for the tenth time in eight years, I’ve decided to consolidate all my blogginess into one page: right here. Here are all the Entropecia2 archives as well as my Twitter, Tumblr, and WordPress side projects.  Published clips are to the right. Basically all the vanity you can stomach and more in one handy location.

More on how us lazy techno-slaves are ruining everything

This post from the Mediabistro Media Jobs blog on how everyone now-a-days is misspelling things that are annoying to type, thereby and ruining our fine language with their g-darn slackitude, reminds me of two recent incidents:

1. That silly rant on The Awl from the lady who still doesn’t have a cell phone (I agree we’re all pretty much techno-slaves, but prefer to think of it as the nice, fetish-style slavery than the real kind, which is, of course, unacceptable), and

2. One uber-nerd’s* comment on my post on Suvudu, rebuking me for my love of Seamus Heaney’s translation of Beowulf. Cause, according to him, you either go Olde English or you GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY LIBRARY.

It gives me a chuckle when people get blustery and adamant about the preservation of ostensibly trivial things, particularly language. English is a mutt dialect, a linguistic Euro-pudding mixed up through a few thousand years of genocides and hostile takeovers. I’ll skip an aigu here & there, no sweat. Same as how I now keep all my friends’ phone numbers safe on a spreadsheet instead of in my brain. Evolution, snitchez.

*Ha-ha, no umlaut here, either!  You can take your keyboard shortcuts and go right to hell!

Infidelity’s Not So Bad

Things Worse Than Cheating

“In a committed relationship nothing hurts more, or is harder to recover from, than infidelity, and this is even truer when it’s the female partner who’s been doing the cheating.” Ian Kerner, Sexuality Counselor, CNN Health

There are some things a significant other can do that will make you wish she had just gone ahead and cheated on you before all this happened.

  • Paranoia After the sixtieth phone call of the day, you’ll wish Cyndi had other interests.
  • Crystal Meth  “Joan cheated on me with Ted in the Hardees bathroom during happy hour,” vs. “Joan withdrew 8 G’s from my savings account while I was at work and filled up the side yard with empty cough syrup bottles.”
  • Ponzi Schemes She was too busy swindling charitable funds and pensioners out of their lives’ savings to buy blood diamonds for anyone else but you.
  • Permanent Vegetative State A custody battle featuring your ex’s new beau, or a feeding-tube-removal battle?
  • Permanent Vegetative Relationship You wish she would have an affair so you could have something to fill the super-massive black hole of your conversations.
  • Sweatshop Ownership Finding out Linda has been sneaking out to rendezvous with Jeff instead of going to Zumba, or finding out she’s been sneaking off to Indonesia to exploit underage workers?
  • Khakis No one thinks you look classy, Carleton.
  • Traumatic Brain Injury “Deborah, how could you do this to me?” Vs. “Deborah sweetie, it’s time to change your catheter.”
  • Serial Murder Your feelings are hurt, but you and the rest of the rugby team are alive and kickin’
  • Being “Really Into” Jazz There is nothing quite so life-ruining as having to sit through a 15-minute bass solo for the thirtieth time.  Nothing.

Eating Habits

I’ve been eating sushi for 10 years, since I first lived near a Wegmans in college. Every time I eat it, it gives me heartburn and puts my stomach off for a day or two. I don’t know if it’s the rawness, the wasabi, whatever. But still, about once a week someone proposes dinner out, and 4 out of 5 times I say “Yes! How about sushi?”

When I first moved to New York, Pong and I used to go out every week to a restaurant on Avenue A that served half-price sushi for its “3 year anniversary.” This “3 year anniversary” special had been going on for a couple of years. Regardless, we would go, stuff our gobs with cheap spicy tuna, then round off the evening with milkshakes from the now-closed NYC Milkshake Company, formerly of St. Mark’s place.

Then he and I would run to the #4 train to the Bronx and the R train to Queens (respectively) and both writhe in digestive agony for the rest of the night. Later we both turned out to be lactose intolerant.

I never figured out if it was the sushi or the milkshake that did it.

The moral is: Sushi is delicious.

Gender Normatize Your Infant with Baby Wigs

Our patent pending HAIR+band accessory combination allows baby girl’s (with little or no hair at all) the opportunity to have a beautifully realistic HAIR style in a SNAP!!

Tired of the humiliating ordeal of having strangers coo over your adorable baby, just to have them ask “Boy or Girl”?  That pink onesie and princess stroller not screaming sufficient second-sex?

Must the little ladies of the 0-2 set miss out on 24 solid months of being as ATTRACTIVE AS POSSIBLE? Not any more — not with BABY WIGS.

Baby wigs are made from the tails of unicorns and lined with pixie leather. Just consult the website: Their unique designs are sprinkled with MAGIC! Get a jump on that Princess phase, lord knows you will never get sick of it.

Shouldn’t you be doing all you can to improve little Madison’s chances of being Top Girl at daycare? Getting a jump on the hair competition will give her advantages in all other Girl pursuits.  She’ll be in earrings by 4, lipstick by 6, and belittling her fellow female classmates in a desperate struggle for social standing by 7.

Everyone knows girlhood is just one big pageant, kids, and with the right baby wig, your progeny will be the winner! Don’t hesitate: It’s never too early to teach your daughter that she must change her physical appearance to fit in.

Interview: Molly Jong-Fast

Interview with Molly Jong-Fast, author of The Social Climber’s Handbook (Villard 2011)

In the world of Molly Jong-Fast’s comic novel The Social Climber’s Handbook, zip codes and social status go together like white on rich people. Her cast of Upper East Side mums and philandering financiers function as if morality, like riding the subway, is something poor people do. Set in the summer of 2008 during the onset of the credit crisis, Handbook introduces UES anti-heroes Dick and Daisy Greenbaum, a power couple holding onto their Brahmin existence by doing What’s Necessary: covering up fraudulent lending, silencing rogue sex bloggers, or old fashioned murder.

Coming from un-humble literary roots as the only daughter of what she called “the short and ill-fated union” of Erica Jong and Jonathan Fast, this 32-year-old mother of three and lifelong Upper Eastsider satirically eviscerates her neighbors in this intelligent beach read. Jong-Fast recently spoke at The New School about the credit crisis, children named after fruits and why women can too be serial killers.

Were you personally affected by the 10021 split?

I’ve always been obsessed with zip codes and phone numbers. For a while I had a [212] 772- number; I was really happy with that. I am still 10021, though I think some people fancier than me were changed to 10028. But that’s right next to 10128, so…

The Social Climber’s Handbook is your third novel. Did you start writing because of your parents?

My mother wrote Fear of Flying, my grandfather was Howard Fast who wrote Spartacus. When your entire family has the same profession, you think: this is easy, this is what I’m going to do. It’s proven to be absolutely horrible and really hard, but now I’m in it. I tried to be a literary agent for a while, because when you’re surrounded by writers you think being an agent is a leisurely pursuit. It turned out that wasn’t the case. Writing is like being in the witness protection program, once you’re in it, you can’t get out.

How has their fame influenced your career?

It opens a lot of doors, then slams them on you. Sometimes I think nobody has as much mean stuff about them on the Internet as I do. I have medium-to-low self-esteem. I love the process of writing; being a public figure is the hard part.

I actually haven’t read my mother’s books, for obvious mental health reasons. There are people who love my her work and hate mine because it’s so different, or hate her and are looking to hate me, by extension. The way I figure it you can either hate her and like me, or vice versa, but not both.

You’re from the Upper East Side. Were you concerned about your neighbors thinking you were trashing the hood?

I wasn’t trashing the Upper East Side. It’s my home. I grew up in a townhouse on 94th and Park, went to NYU and Barnard and got my MFA from Bennington College. I’ve never lived anywhere else. But you do encounter ridiculous things every day, like children named after royalty or fruit. You meet unbelievably wealthy people who will never want for anything and are still unhappy, and you feel sorry for them. There are questionable people everywhere, this happens to be the world I know.

What made you want to write about a serial killer? 

I read a lot of mysteries and I love Patricia Highsmith’s work. I wanted to write a female Mr. Ripley, or a female Dexter. I read an interview a few years ago with Bret Easton Ellis [The Guardian, 2001] where he said he didn’t think women had it in them to be serial killers. I was like: Fuck you! Women can totally be serial killers!

It also occurred to me that if you wanted to commit a crime, it would help to be a woman with a really nice handbag. If I actually was a serial killer, this book would be the perfect cover.

The book is set during the 2008 credit crisis and you use a lot of detail about shady bank practices. Any correlation to your murdering anti-heroine?

What the credit crisis taught me is that people can commit unthinkable crimes and absolutely get away with it. My husband works in finance and when this happened, neither of us could believe the kind of criminal behavior these guys had gotten away with. I still don’t think people understand how close we were to breadlines, to going to Starbucks and there not being coffee. The taxpayers got screwed and almost all the banks got away with it.

Molly Jong-Fast, The Social Climber’s Handbook, Villard 2011. On sale April 26.

Quick! Post the Anti-Paddies’ Day Guide!

I wish I thought of this sooner, I could have gotten paid for it!  Or at least, paid in readership, as these things often are.Tardi-tardi-tar!  It’s Saint Paddies’ day in New York!  The largest confluence of voluntary ethnic stereotyping since Columbus Day! I.  Fecking. Hate this day. It’s just like New Year’s: suddenly, the world has converged on your home and is using it to throw a KEGGER.

I don’t know about y’all, but I can celebrate my genetic alcoholism any ol’ day of the week.  Sure, I’m “proud” of my 1/4 Irishness, but prefer to think of it as a deep personal pride I maintain by reading Beckett, listening to Primordial and never, ever talking about my feelings. So while I spend the celebration of one of Christianity’s few bloodless conversions doing that, here are some things you can do that won’t get you ambushed by pasty meatheads from Long Island on a break from humanity in the name of partial heritage.

Activity 1: Watch the dignified old Irish dudes in the parade. Wear rainbows, in solidarity. Go home early, make some colcannon and raise a glass or Murphy’s while watching Once. Or that movie with the adorable kids and Djaimon Honsu.  Screw all’a’y’all. I love that movie.

Activity 2: Go to work (if that’s your thing), and afterward treat yourself at one of these fine establishments likely to be ignored by the faux-Eire baffoonery.

Ethiopian Food followed by German Beer.
Currywurst followed by French Wine.
Australian hamburgers followed by Zyweic
Soul Food and Jazz
Bahn Mi and plum brandy.

This year, I personally have a party to go to.  A lovely couple, of German and French origin, are moving to Africa, and throwing themselves a farewell.  Tardi-tardi-tor to you all.