So I went onto Barnes & Noble, looking to see who was going to be reading at Union Square or Astor Place this week, and goddamme if there isn't ANOTHER fucking book that some guy wrote about his dog.
You know what? I love my pets. I love them dearly, and I will be very very sad when Mambo finally kicks it. Unless he's got a painting growing old in some secret spot in the apartment, that won't be very long from now... he is nearly 17, after all. That's like, 125 in people years. A Portrait of Dorian Cat.
But jeez louise, do we have to be subjected to five books a year that are people eulogizing their damn dogs?
After getting 250 pages of fatuous crap published about how loyal, devoted, funny, friendly, and playful your dog is, will you actually have the energy to say 250 words at the funeral of a parent?
Last note on this: is it my imagination, or do the title characters of these sappy-crappy memoirs all have names that start with "M"? What is it about "M"? Marley, Merle, Morrie -- oh wait, Morrie was an actual human being. The book was no less fatuous crap than any of the dog books, but at least MORRIE WAS HUMAN.
6 comments:
New York is weird. A dog? I think if someone read from his book at a B&N out here it would have to be about how he fit spinners to his Kubota. Guess I can't talk.
ha! I'm not aware of these books but they sounds kind of creepy and strange. I think the weirdest part is that there are people who are actually buying these books!
i love ted kerasote. he was a writer at audubon when i knew him. it's my understanding that these books aren't about the dogs, but maybe more about the people, and how lonely/twisted/wack/confused they were before a dog helped them through it. in ted's case, i suspect it's about something like how having a dog helped him to appreciate and love--and discover--the outdoors he's written so movingly about in previous books.
From what I can see, Kerasote writes about the outdoors. John Grogan, apparently, has made an entire career out of writing about his damn dog. Hack.
Oh, *that* guy. Give me James Herriot any day.
Right? I never thought James Herriot was schlocky. Nor Cleveland Amory.
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