Mother. Wife. Sister. Human. Warrior. Falcon. Yardstick. Turban. Cabbage.

If you call Twitter "The Twitter" unironically, you probably have no idea who Rob Delaney is.* If you tweet, or have loved ones who do, you have probably read, retweeted, faved, hugged, molested, laser cut, or put into escrow one of his hilarious tweets.**

He was in especially fine form during the 2012 elections, when he tormented Mitt Romney incessantly. Glory days! That's when I started following him, and he's proven to be a delicious creamy middle between the depressing low of real-life news twitter accounts (I've never been more informed or horrified) and the uncomfortable yet oddly hilarious highs of super absurd weird twitter. He's funny, and weird, don't get me wrong - but he also feels like a real person you could have over for dinner without fearing for your life/sanity.

If I like something I generally like more of that same thing (I currently have a 3.5lb bag of sour patch kids in my kitchen), so, surprise, I loved the book. It's basically a memoir, and Delaney has had some epic misadventures. Almost dying via acts of youthful stupidity is a common theme, and provides a nice counter-point to the more serious but no less compelling stories about his struggles with mental illness and his alcoholism.

Also,  I can honestly say I have never before laughed out loud at a story involving a drowned baby. So, there's that.

4 unflattering green speedos out of 5.

*And if you call it "The Twitter" ironically, you are the worst. 

**I've told my mom these are all things you can do to tweets. Sometimes I like to confuse her. "Honey, how do I hug one of your tweets?" I'm a bad person, she is lovely. 

Wave

I have gone on record as a lover of sad documentaries and non-fiction. I have actually said the words "sometimes a good cry is important," when referring to experiencing things like Dear Zachary, A Day No Pigs Would Die, The Invisible War, Columbine, and One Nation Under Dog.

So, after reading Sonali Deraniyagala's memoir about losing her entire family in the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami, I understandably wanted to punch myself in the face. Hard. Books like this, describing devastating experiences like hers, are stark reminders of what a privilege it is to decide to feel like crying.

5 out of 5.

Just Kids

If this book had a smell, it would be beer, piss, sweat, charcoal dust, and that musty thrift-store clothing odor. I’m sure certain people would also add “pretension” to that list, but I never got that vibe from Patti Smith’s memoir of her time spent in late 60s/70s NYC with Robert Mapplethorpe.  Sure, if Paris Hilton wrote “The artist seeks contact with his intuitive sense of the gods, but in order to create his work, he cannot stay in this seductive and incorporeal realm,” I’d be rolling my eyes with the best of them and looking forward to the inevitable reading by James Lipton on Conan. But pretension can’t exist if you have the chops to back it up, and I’d make the argument that Patti Smith, the Godmother of Punk, has got some fierce chops.

Besides, the memoir is really a love letter to Mapplethorpe and to the gritty New York City I can barely imagine. Hustling on 42^nd street, rooming with junkies at the Hotel Allerton, shoplifting raw steaks...it all has a seedy glamour* when seen through the lens of Smith & Mapplethorpe’s complicated relationship. Sometimes lovers, always friends, and often muses for each other, they navigated the city and its art scene together. The intimacy, warmth, and affection that comes through in Smith’s writing is powerful enough – take away Warhol, Hendrix, Max’s Kansas City, Joni Mitchell, CBGB’s; even the protagonists' eventual fame & fortune, and it’s still a worthwhile read. Actually, it would have been more interesting if both of them had grown up, moved to suburbia, become tax attorneys, and gotten together occasionally to reminisce about their wild youth over a glass of Pinot. Oh well - sometimes people grow up to be rock stars.

4 androgynous haircuts out of 5.

*A seedy glamour I am happy to appreciate from afar: I hate having dirty feet & I’m terrified of bedbugs, so I’m fairly content with the sanitized version of NYC that exists today.  

Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail

The term "armchair travel," in addition to being silly, refers to books or other proxies that give you the experience of a place/trip without ever having to get off of your fat ass and out of the house. I guess "an armchair travel book" sells it better than "you know you'll never get it together enough to spend the summer biking through Tuscany, so read about this person who did. They are also better looking than you."

Cheryl Strayed has written a book I would describe as "armchair wilderness therapy." You know, those programs that troubled kids get sent to after appearing on Maury Povich episodes about "out of control teens." Strayed's is the book you read to (via armchair) get your shit together so that you CAN (via armchair) travel to Tuscany and live your best life.

Is this a new record for the amount of words I've written in a review without actually describing anything substantial about the book in question? No? How...about....now?

Making up for lost time: Strayed's memoir, of the summer she hiked a section of the Pacific Crest Trail, is powerful and honest. It's so vividly descriptive, of both the trail & her state of mind, that it feels like she wrote it as she walked along, not years after the fact. Anyone who has ever faced a turning point in their early adulthood (so...everyone?) will find themselves nodding along, and may even start to look for their hiking boots in the closet before getting distracted by an old bag of gummy bears they find sticking out of their purse. Gummy bears never go bad - fun fact!

Read this book. You will find more than expired candy.

5 blood-filled blisters out of 5.