The Bookstore, by Deborah Meyler

As an avid reader, whenever I see a book title encompassing one of those magical literary terms, such as novel, manuscript, journal, or bookstore, it automatically scores an initial star in my rating.  It wouldn't matter if the pages within those covers were about thermoplastic polyurethane or indigenous Pygmy groups in the Congo - my inner geek is still doing a little dance of joy.  Couple that with a cover photo of a stack of fat, juicy books, and SQUEEE...this little piggy is going to market.  Such is the story with The Bookstore, by Deborah Meyler.

True to my previous statement, I knew I wanted to read this book before I even had an inkling what it was about.  If it has a bookstore in it, it's for me!  Well, it turns out that the bookstore in question here is The Owl, a fictional imitation of those cramped, yet invaluable, little pieces of real estate that make New York City what it is.  It's here that we meet owner George, employees Luke and Bruce, and a colorful cast of extras, including the homeless, the famous, and the just plain nuts.  (a la the real NYC!). The central character, however, is prim and proper Esme, a British import visiting the United States to study art history at Columbia University.    
Somehow or other, Esme finds herself romantically involved with (externally) handsome Mitchell van Leuven.  With a name like Van Looooooooo-ven, I'm sure you can already guess that he hails from a hoity-toity moneyed family, complete with a home in the Hamptons and judgmental airs.  (To put it in highfalutin literary terminology...yucky snooty-snoots.)  While still scratching my head over how the author could present such a mismatched couple, I read on to discover that Esme is pregnant.  And, just as she's about to share the news with Mr. Wonderful, he dumps her.  So begins her journey toward independence and self-sufficiency, resulting in her job at the aforementioned Owl bookstore.  Or that's the way it SHOULD have gone.

Ms. Meyler had a golden opportunity to present her readers with a wicked strong heroine you could root for.  Instead, however, she went down that all-too-common road of wimpy females who will put up with anything to keep a man (the aforementioned moronic Mitchell).  I lost any sympathy I may have previously held for poor little Esme, as she traded in her morals, beliefs, and self respect for that loser over and over, and over again.  It was immensely frustrating.  For God's sake, my 9 year old niece would know enough to cut her losses and walk away already.

I enjoyed some of the quirky peripheral characters, and the moments spent in The Owl were charming.  But, ultimately, I got more frustration than enjoyment from this one.  This was a middle of the road effort, at best.  After all, a book title can only compensate for so much.  I may have to temper my expectations before tackling A Novel Bookstore, by Laurence Cosse.

In the Pleasure Groove: Love, Death, and Duran Duran

Being a female teeny bopper in the glorious years that comprised the 1980’s, it was a rite of passage to swoon over the boys in Duran Duran.  While I’m guilty of such activities myself, I’m proud to state that my participation was somewhat limited.  Their sound was always a bit too modern, their look too glam.  (Nick Rhodes STILL wears more make-up than any woman I know!)  But, the gossip hound in me is still intrigued by any book that promises to give the reader an inside glimpse of life in the spotlight.  

     

So, I’ve already told you that I’m not the biggest D2 fan.  In addition to this, I always got the distinct impression that JT, in particular, was a moronic digme.  I suppose the vast majority of ‘rock stars’ have elements of that, but he seems to have more than his share.  In interviews – including those given during Duran’s heyday - I always thought he came across as an immature, smarmy schmuck.  Judging by some of the things he writes in this book, it doesn’t seem that he’s changed much. 

There’s nothing even remotely likable about this guy – there’s nothing to him.  He’s all air.  And, when I say ‘air,’ I don’t mean to insinuate stupidity.  Instead, I just think there’s no depth to his character (certainly none on display here).  And, every time I thought he was starting to scratch the surface of something, I’d turn the page and he’d be on to something completely different.  When he spoke about becoming a dad, I thought – here we go.  I’m sure I’ll see a more human side to him.  And, I did…for about 3 paragraphs.  I think the book would’ve done better to cover fewer topics, but delve deeper into the ones that remained.  Instead, I didn’t feel like I was given a true idea of who he is, beyond the arrogant mess I already envisioned. 

There were the obligatory chapters:  his stint in rehab; the numerous women he loved, left, and forgot about; the name dropping.  But, there’s no originality – nothing that sets him apart from any other rock star featured in a 60-second VH1 clip. 

I also have to take issue with the pictures included in the book.  It was really nice that a photo was included at the beginning of each chapter (in addition to the obligatory insert) – a really nice touch.  HOWEVER, it would’ve been nicer if I had known who I was looking at.  In one of the more bizarre traits of this autobiography, NONE of the people in the pictures are identified.  It was *so* annoying to read about someone, and then have to guess if that was the one pictured or not.  Yep – ball, dropped.

      

Alas, now we come to the reason why I have never been a real John Taylor fan.  He’s a brat.  I formed that opinion approximately 30 years ago, and it stands true today.  Duran Duran was a phenomenon, without a doubt.   There were screaming girls, sold out concerts, the whole nine yards.  But, JT writes as if they were as big as the Beatles.  I think someone needs to remind him of just how quickly their balloon deflated.  Sure, they’re still together (for the most part), and put out the occasional new song.  But, when was the last time they were able to fill a stadium?  Or even an average size basketball arena?  If you want to talk like the big boys, you have to produce like the big boys.  They certainly can’t be lumped into the same category as artists such as U2, the Stones, or Springsteen (who seems to be a frequent victim of Taylor’s tantrums.)  

Much as he’d probably hate to admit it, his personal fame has far more to do with his pretty face than any talent he believes himself to have.

John Taylor is a legend in his own mind, but certainly not in mine.

Goodnight June, by Sarah Jio

Sarah Jio is an author who seemingly appeared out of nowhere...the current 'it' girl of contemporary women's fiction.  I remember playing a book swap game on Paperback Swap (yes, I'm a geek; I already confessed to this), and I was given a choice of several different Jio books.  Who was this Jio person, and how could she have all these titles available without me being aware of her?

Well, I now own about 4 Jio novels, which are sitting on my bookshelves, waiting for their turn at bat.  The first one I cracked open was Morning Glory, my opinion of which could be evidenced by the absence of a review.  I wasn't bowled over.  In short, I thought it was sappy and predictable.  But, I detected something in there - some unrealized potential for a great story.  So, I decided to give Ms. Jio another shot.   Enter Goodnight June.  And yes, the title is a play on that famous children's book, Goodnight Moon.  Which brings me to a small confession...

I didn't grow up with Goodnight Moon.  I never read Goodnight Moon.  Actually, I never even HEARD of Goodnight Moon until I was in my 30's.  (Okay, go ahead now and pick your jaw up off the floor.  I'll wait.  All better now?  Good.)  My point in mentioning this is that the title of this book didn't hold any special appeal to me, as it seems to for so many others.  I think there's a whole list of folks dying to get their hands on this sucker, if only for reasons of nostalgia.   I picked it up mostly because it's a bestseller.

Goodnight June tells the story of a hard-edged NYC banker named June Andersen, who inherits her great Aunt Ruby's cozy Seattle bookstore, Bluebird Books.  Although she has many fond childhood memories of the store (and her aunt), the plan is to get in and get out.  That is, pack it up and liquidate it, in as little time as possible.  But, as you may have expected, those plans are derailed when she starts to sift through the boxes of her childhood.

While taking that journey down memory lane, June stumbles across a series of letters between Aunt Ruby and Margaret Wise Brown, author of the aforementioned Goodnight Moon.  The letters depict a deeply-forged friendship between the ladies, as well as some insight into how the famous children's classic came to be.

One of the main themes in the book is the importance of familial relationships - specifically, the incomparable bond shared by sisters.  Sadly, the common sisterly thread shared by the three central female characters in this story is one of estrangement.  Although the issue between June and her sister is probably easily figured out by any casual fiction reader, it still plays prominently in the book.

Of course, there's also the obligatory love interest thrown in, something I'm generally not a fan of.  I'm not sure why authors think that women's fiction simply *must* have that tall, dark, and handsome element.  In my opinion, I think it only serves to cheapen the tale the author was trying to tell.  There was so much meat of a different nature here that it simply wasn't necessary to throw in a bit of Mr. Right.  It reeks too much of that sappiness I previously attributed to a different Jio book.  Thankfully though, it wasn't a case of overkill, capable of ruining the book's appeal, and I found myself thoroughly enjoying it.  In fact, I may even need to pick up one of those other Jio books soon.  We'll see.