Memoir: “My Booky Wook” by Russell Brand

After watching Get Him to the Greek, my friend went out and bought My Booky Wook. She read it in, like, a day, and then gave it to me to read. And because it was a book I was borrowing (and not one I’d bought months ago), I started reading it immediately so as to return it to her as soon as possible.

It took me entirely too long to read this book. And I’m not sure why. I like Russell Brand – he was hilarious on Conan – and Get Him to the Greek was funny enough. He totally stole Forgetting Sarah Marshall from Jason Segal and Kristen Bell (I almost called her Veronica Mars for a second). What I especially love about Russell Brand (and, if you want to get into it, Ricky Gervais as well) is his accent and how multi-syllabic words are spit out in his choppy, Essex lilt. And as I write this, I wonder if the book was too long because after a while, it stopped sounding like Russell Brand and just like any other sort of book(y wook).

I think everyone can agree that even the most ridiculous things sound completely logical and intelligent when spoken in a down-and-dirty British accent. And what I love about Russell Brand, Ricky Gervais, and Monty Python’s band of lovable scamps is that they routinely speak of intelligent, scholarly things, and their appearance and their accents completely belie the initial assumption that they wouldn’t talk about those things because they look like they wouldn’t know what they’re talking about. Wait — that came out completely wrong. Let’s try this: this is something I’ve contemplated in the past, but Brand manages to speak of it quite easily:

When we first got Topsy [his first childhood pet], she would be allowed to sleep in the bed with me: I hope it is not necessary for me to stress the platonic nature of that relationship — not platonic in the purist sense, there was no philosophical discourse, but we certainly didn’t fuck, which is usually what people mean by platonic; which I bet would really piss Plato off, that for all his thinking and chatting his name has become an adjective for describing sexless trysts. [44]

Wouldn’t that piss Plato off? I mean, if I were known in my time as a symbol for higher thinking and pure contemplation, only to learn that two thousand (or so) years after my demise, my name has come to be associated with the first two-thirds of When Harry Met Sally. Come on.

If you’re expecting some hilarious, Hollywood inside track in this book, look elsewhere. My Booky Wook is strictly about Brand’s life – his childhood in a somewhat broken home, his deisre to be an actor and famous above all else, and for a good amount of the book, his life as an addict of multiple vices. Between alcohol, drugs, heroin, and sexual addiction, he has covered all the addictive bases (except for chocolate and sugar – but perhaps he left that for My Booky Wook 2).

Russell Brand’s determination and intention shine through on every page, and it’s well-written. In the end, I’m not sure why I didn’t like it more. Actually, my friend Brad and I discussed this briefly as I told him that I had read the book(y wook) and didn’t really like it. He said, “I like him, but in small doses. Get Him to the Greek? I wanted to shoot myself. But he was hilarious in that Veronica Mars movie.” And I think that’s it: it took so long to read because Russell Brand is a good-in-small-doses comedian. Over three hundred pages of Russell Brand is too much Russell Brand.

Grade for My Booky Wook: 1.5 stars

Non-fiction: “Waiter Rant” by Steve Dublanica

Here’s the story of how I acquired Waiter Rant. My sister, Missy the Kid and I were in Border’s just before Christmas, and had the following conversation:

Missy: Hey, since I probably won’t be able to get you that Nintendo 64 for Christmas like I wanted to, what else do you want?
Me: I dunno … [reads the back of Waiter Rant; shrugs] You can get me this, I guess.
Missy: ‘K.

Flash-forward to Christmas morning: “Hey, Waiter Rant!”

Can I tell you how glad I am that I picked up the book to read the back of it? And that Missy was standing right there asking me if there was something other than Mario Kart 64 I wanted for Christmas? And that she remembered? Dudes, this book was amazing. I picked this up Saturday afternoon after finishing Deja Dead and finished it this morning. This is the fastest I’ve read a book in months. It was so hard to put it down! Which was difficult, because my vacation was over and I had classes and work and stuff. (It’s pretty poor form to be reading a book called Waiter Rant while on the sales floor.)

Waiter Rant started out as a blog – not unlike … well, not this one.  That’s What She Read is solely for book reviews and the like. I am referring to my other blog, that a couple of you know about but not too many and let’s just keep that between us, ‘kay? Anyway. The Waiter (who remains anonymous through the book until the last page, save for the name on the cover) started a blog over at WaiterRant.net back in 2004, talking about his experiences as a waiter at The Bistro, a high-end bistro in New York City. Over time, the blog gained notice and followers, and in 2006 he won a Bloggie Award (there are blog awards!?) for Best Writing of a Weblog. The site eventually turned into a book deal, and … well, then I ended up with a copy as a temporary replacement for Mario Kart 64. And loved every second of it.

And throughout the second half of it, I kept thinking to myself, “Hey, this could happen to me if I had the stones to write about Where I Work, even though we were explicitly told Not To.” Because God forbid one of the customers who asks me if I work there while I’m wearing the uniform, apron, and nametag and holding a pile of merchandise with a walkie-talkie in my ear decides to search “bitchy sales rep at Where I Work blog” on google and find my rant about her.

Not that I’ve done this. At all. Ahem.

Non-fiction: “Writing in an Age of Silence” by Sara Paretsky

I truly enjoy Sara Paretsky’s V I Warshawski mystery novels, and when Writing in An Age of Silence first came out, I immediately put it on my To Read List. It’s taken a couple of years, but I found a copy at my Local Library^TM.

Non-fiction: “The Sex Lives of Cannibals” by J. Maarten Troost

This is one of those books I picked up back in February, after reading Tess of the d’Urbervilles created one of the worst cases of Book-ADHD I’ve ever experienced. After finishing Fluke, I wanted to knock this one off the list once and for all.

Not-so-fresh out of college, Maarten realizes that the life of a temp is not for him (there were very few promising careers for one who graduated with a degree in international politics). His girlfriend, Sylvia, who has slightly higher career aspirations, is offered a chance to be a developer for a third-world strip of land in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

…We were about to give notice to our landlord when Sylvia called me at work and asked if I would be inclined to move to a small atoll in the Equatorial Pacific and whether I would be able to do so in about three weeks’ time. She had been offered a position as country director for the Foundation for the Peoples of the South Pacific-Kiribati Office. Five seconds later I quit my job. Then I called Sylvia back.

“Kiri-what?”

The first few chapters are about the history of Kiribati (pronounced Kiri-bas) and the island Sylvia and Maarten end up on, Tarawa, and they’re kind of slow going. I easily blame these chapters for why it has taken me just about five months to complete this book. Once Maarten starts talking about the island hijinks (for instance: the Great Beer Crisis, flying Air Kiribati), the humor takes off and it’s quite enjoyable. Even when he’s discussing the history of Kiribati, which involves a lot of gods all named Nauru, he is self-deprecating and sarcastic enough to keep me interested, but it’s not as funny or interesting as the events that directly affect Maarten.

He was not as funny as A.J. Jacobs in The Know It All, but there were a couple of chuckle-ey moments. However, if, like me, you decide to pick up the book based on the scintillating title, allow me to burst your bubble; unless the title refers to the cannibalistic dogs on the island, then there are no tales of the sex lives of any cannibals. Sorry.

Grade for The Sex Lives of Cannibals: 2 stars

Essays: “Me Talk Pretty One Day” by David Sedaris

I just realized: this book wasn’t included in my “Currently Reading” Picture I posted earlier this week. Dangit! I am still exactly where I was three days ago (or whatever it was).

Me Talk Pretty One Day was a book that was always on my “Gee, someday I’m going to read that book” list – there was no urgent need to read it (unlike PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES, which, still savoring), but I wanted to make sure I did read it.

Having finished it, I am … underwhelmed. And not because I don’t appreciate David Sedaris’s brand of humor; I think it’s because I know a few people who have read this book and others by him and raved about him, and his essays are the Best Thing Since Sliced Bread, and I’ll Never Laugh Again Like When I Read Sedaris.

But … I didn’t. I dunno; there were parts that were humorous, but did I fall out of my chair laughing (as I did at the Sermon on the Mount speech from Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal)? No, I did not.

And again, that’s not to say I didn’t like it: I did. The first half is a series of essays describing David’s childhood in North Carolina and his career path through Crystal Meth Addict/”Artist” to Unqualified Creating Writing Teacher in Chicago; the second half is his experiences living in Paris and being unable to speak the language. All the essays were full of amazing language, and he has a nice, dry wit that I can appreciate.

But I was not found rolling on the floor laughing my ass off at it. Again, not a bad thing; just a disappointment, because I was told by people that he is the Funniest Writer Ever.

I guess those people haven’t read Lamb.

Grade for Me Talk Pretty One Day: 2.5 stars