I'll admit it: I bought this book for the schadenfreude. I skimmed over the financial stats and took particular glee in reading about people going froI'll admit it: I bought this book for the schadenfreude. I skimmed over the financial stats and took particular glee in reading about people going from billionaire to bankrupt overnight in the 2008 financial crisis. My favorite examples? A toss-up between the former billionaire who could no longer pay her phone bill and had to learn to do her own dishes, and the wife of a guy who when from $8 billion to $100 million overnight, who then had to cope with the "trauma" of flying commercial after they sold their private jets. Then there's the story of the repo man who has to travel with a former pro-wrestler when he takes back the toys of the ex-rich: jets, yachts, and sports cars. Oh yeah, then there's the chick who went so broke that the coral in her special tropical fish tank got repossessed. Oh, and the single tear that slid down the face of a woman who, with her husband, was building the largest house in America until they ran out of money. HAHAHAHAHA!!! LOVE IT.
Basically, the whole book is about these stupid people who are no better than you and me: they're rich on paper and they don't really own anything. Heh. Makes me feel a little less guilty about having charged the book. ;)
My one complaint are the five typos and numerous grammatical errors that I found, likely because this book was rushed into publication before the ex-nouveau riche could climb out of their financial holes and find money again. But what the hell? I'm willing to overlook the occasional typo if it means entertainment found in the financial ruin of the excessively wealthy.
:-D
Merged review:
I'll admit it: I bought this book for the schadenfreude. I skimmed over the financial stats and took particular glee in reading about people going from billionaire to bankrupt overnight in the 2008 financial crisis. My favorite examples? A toss-up between the former billionaire who could no longer pay her phone bill and had to learn to do her own dishes, and the wife of a guy who when from $8 billion to $100 million overnight, who then had to cope with the "trauma" of flying commercial after they sold their private jets. Then there's the story of the repo man who has to travel with a former pro-wrestler when he takes back the toys of the ex-rich: jets, yachts, and sports cars. Oh yeah, then there's the chick who went so broke that the coral in her special tropical fish tank got repossessed. Oh, and the single tear that slid down the face of a woman who, with her husband, was building the largest house in America until they ran out of money. HAHAHAHAHA!!! LOVE IT.
Basically, the whole book is about these stupid people who are no better than you and me: they're rich on paper and they don't really own anything. Heh. Makes me feel a little less guilty about having charged the book. ;)
My one complaint are the five typos and numerous grammatical errors that I found, likely because this book was rushed into publication before the ex-nouveau riche could climb out of their financial holes and find money again. But what the hell? I'm willing to overlook the occasional typo if it means entertainment found in the financial ruin of the excessively wealthy.
At the beginning of 2023, I realized I hadn’t read an actual book in almost 3 years: blame it on 2020, when the real world became more interesting thaAt the beginning of 2023, I realized I hadn’t read an actual book in almost 3 years: blame it on 2020, when the real world became more interesting than anything even the greatest of authors could dream up … I just couldn’t look away from that daily train wreck until, finally, I needed to… I decided to make myself read at least one book — turns out that was no easy feat, given that my entire worldview radically shifted over the last 3 years… Where even to begin?
I decided on this one simply because it seemed safe: old enough that it probably wasn’t written for political purposes or a thinly veiled propaganda piece, early enough in the genre so as not to be salacious or written for shock value, and from a time when publishing a book still required good writing from authors. Oh, and speaking of authors, my parents knew this one—Walter Gilmour, the Alaska cop who coauthored the book with Leland Hale, was a longtime friend. (I still remember running into Gilmour in Anchorage with my parents when I was 11 years old—and doing my damndest to pretend I wasn’t eavesdropping as Gilmore described his upcoming book, “Butcher, Baker” due to be published soon…what I’d overheard that afternoon was so chilling that when two bright orange copies of Butcher Baker seemed to materialize in our house a few months later, I never had the courage to sneak a peek at the pages. But I never forgot it, either).
So, after an extended hiatus from reading, this book seemed like a good place to start.
If that feels like a lot of buildup for a 3-star book, believe me, that’s how it felt reading it.
Here’s the deal: this is a highly readable, damn near unputdownable book (like I said - good writing was a still prerequisite for publishing a book back then). That’s due to Leland Hale, who proves himself from the very first page. He’s one of those increasingly rare kind of writers who’s such a natural, you’re never even aware of his presence: that is, you’ll never trip up on an odd detail or inconsistency, or get dragged through the dull quicksand of pointless filler prose—there’s absolutely nothing here to stop you, give you pause and make you wonder who the hell wrote this thing. Ahhhh, the absent narrator. Truly the sign of a great writer (imo anyway)—and all the more impressive here, where such a complex story could’ve easily devolved into over-detailed hell, but is instead relayed with tightly controlled writing and smooth simplicity.
That said, maybe my 3-star review isn’t fair, because my problem isn’t so much with the book itself, but rather how it’s been marketed—and the marketing of the the subsequent documentaries (7 of them), films (2), TV episodes (countless), and podcasts about Robert Hansen that have sprung up over the last 30 years since Butcher, Baker was published.
The thing is… I started to smell a rat with the true crime genre while reading Maureen Callahan’s American Predator: The … Most Meticulous Serial Killer about supposed serial killer Israel Keyes in 2019 — because after all that hype, media noise, and an entire 300-page book, the only provable thing about Israel Keyes was that he was a sloppy kidnapper, literally so shitty that he got caught after his first abduction (the “Most Meticulous Serial Killer of the 21st Century” indeed ...more
Almost a year ago, the author of this book contacted me and asked if I’d write a review. I agreed, but since I hardly have time to rePlaceholder text:
Almost a year ago, the author of this book contacted me and asked if I’d write a review. I agreed, but since I hardly have time to read any more, am only just getting to it now. (Sorry, James).
For transparency: I don’t know this author and I bought my own copy of the kindle edition.
I’ve only read the first few pages, but good God, I can’t believe how well this dude can write. Automatic five stars for blowing me away from the first sentence — will update when I finish the book.
You know those books that come along, disguised as brainless beach reads? The ones that look all innocent, but before you know it, have you swipinJFC.
You know those books that come along, disguised as brainless beach reads? The ones that look all innocent, but before you know it, have you swiping away obnoxious notifications (buzz off, work/kids/friends!) from your screen because you’re too busy...reading?
Know what kind of book I mean?
Yeah, me either, because I haven’t come across one in a fuckin decade.
I don’t know who Anna Pitoniak is, but I do know that it’s not nice to sink me—the fiction-hater who especially loathes spending a dime on bad books—for $17 and keep me up reading til 2AM on a weeknight. (Put a warning on that sh*t next time, Anna: it’s been two days and my friends and family want to know where I am).
You can find a synopsis of Necessary People anywhere, so you don’t need me to get into it. Just ignore anyone who says this is the story of two friends who couldn’t be more different—face-value that nonsense, and pay attention to the subtle hints along the way, or you’ll miss the whole point.
It’s not just that the writing is decent (fine, at times, it’s on the verge of brilliant) and the pacing, surprisingly good (okay, whatever, it snatches you up like a riptide, whisking you out to sea before you have time to wonder what the hell happened).
It’s not even the plot, which is almost too perfect to be believable (okay, I’m bullshitting you now—the story is shocking in its “just-fucked-up-enough-ness” to be a little too real).
Half the time, bad fiction gets away with being, well, bad because of lots of nifty tricks that readers miss, or simply don’t pause to question. But I can’t even get to that point in contemporary fiction anymore—I pull the trigger much sooner. For me, it’s that pesky suspension of disbelief thing: it’s almost never carefully navigated enough to get me past page 3 in 99% of today’s novels.
Maybe that’s what got me from the first page of this book: the fact that Pitoniak never once takes it for granted that we simply believe her, which makes the story immediately engrossing, (un)comfortably familiar, at times anxiety-provoking, and ultimately, totally addictive.
Because when you read this book and work your way through the throngs of narcissists, sociopaths, and fuckin certifiable psychopaths, it makes you do more than wonder if the whole world has gone mad as you try to figure out who’s good and who’s bad. It has you seeing all sorts of faces you recognize: those you’ve worked for, dated, lived with, loved. Perhaps more frightening than the recognition of those you know in this story are the glimpses you’ll inevitably catch—both past and present—of yourself: who you once were, who you were on the verge of becoming, and who you are now. And no matter in which characters you see yourself—the good ones, the bad ones, the worst ones—the unsettling part is when you close the book...because you’ll realize that back here in reality, no matter who you are or where you exist in the pecking order, your real life is populated with the twisted personalities depicted in this novel. You may not be one of them, but you know who they are (most of them, anyway)—you interact with them every day.
>shudder<
Welp.
That’s the kind of thing that’ll keep you up at night, writing a goodreads review at 3AM with your thumbs while trying to unpack what the hell you just read. Brainless beach read, indeed. (Thank God it only happens once in a decade).
This is what happens when I try to give fiction another chance. I finished this over 24 hours ago and I'm still pissed off.
I'm not even going tSigh.
This is what happens when I try to give fiction another chance. I finished this over 24 hours ago and I'm still pissed off.
I'm not even going to waste time reviewing this. Everything you need to know is in this rad review.
This novel is, at best, what a Gillian Flynn book would be if Flynn knew how to write.
Don't get me wrong: Ottessa Moshfegh is a good writer -- great, even. But it's an unusual place to be in when you're reading an extremely well-written but horribly crappy book... It's like watching a shitty Bette Davis movie: the frustration of seeing all that talent squandered and wasted, and the urge to bitchslap whoever let it happen.
If you're in the mood for something delectably dark and twisted, save yourself the $17 and skip this book. Watch Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? instead.
The next time you find yourself shocked/stupified/wishing you could bitchslap some obnoxious Millennial, do yourself a favor and pick up a copy of KatThe next time you find yourself shocked/stupified/wishing you could bitchslap some obnoxious Millennial, do yourself a favor and pick up a copy of Kate Fagan's What Made Maddy Run The Secret Struggles and Tragic Death of an All-American Teen. It won't make you want to bitchslap them any less, but at least you'll understand what the hell is wrong with them.
Seriously.
What Made Maddy Run profiles just one 19 year-old woman, but the story of her life, from its promising beginning to its tragic end, encapsulates the flaws and struggles of an entire generation.
Fagan's book, which poses important questions about the pressures facing the youngest Millennials and discusses the state of mental health on college campuses, should be required reading for all incoming freshmen, their parents, and their professors--recognizing mental health issues in this famously non-communicative generation is their job.
As for the rest of us?
The book gives us a little insight into what makes these kids tick. You won't come away with a newfound respect (lol) for Millennials--kudos to Fagan, by the way, for making zero attempt to defend the Shittiest Generation--but at least you'll understand 20-somethings a little better.
But I digress.
Fagan's book explores the events leading up to the suicide of 19 year-old Ivy League track star Madison Holleran. What was it that drove a beautiful, brilliant, accomplished student and star athlete--and 6 others at her university that same year--to take her own life?
The girl had everything, and a bright future was all but guaranteed.
So.
What the hell happened?
Fagan does a lot of deep diving into possible factors leading to Maddy's suicide, from mental illness to the enormous amount of pressure that student athletes endure, but her main theory is one that rings so true that it's particularly alarming.
Simply put, Fagan argues that Madison's generation of "digital natives" (those who never lived in a world without the Internet) are social media savvy as fuck, but offline, they lack basic social and emotional skills--i.e. empathy, introspection, self-expression, compassion, etc.--essential to human communication and interaction. In Madison's case, real communication was exactly what she needed, was incapable of asking for, and wasn't getting.
To paraphrase the hell out of Fagan, think about Millennials like Madison this way:
--Growing up with a screen in their faces has left these kids with almost zero capacity for critical thinking; instead, they function mindless and automated...just like the computers that raised them. The result is "a generation of world-class hoop jumpers...young people who know what they’re supposed to say, but not necessarily why they’re saying it." This is a group of young people who "have been taught what to think, but not how to think."
--The majority of their socialization takes place online: text messages, Facebook, Instagram, etc., which keeps communication at an emoji-filled level of superficiality. Citing scholar William Deresiewicz, Fagan notes the problematic nature of that superficiality: "We have 968 “friends” that we never actually talk to; instead we just bounce one-line messages off them a hundred times a day. This is not friendship, this is distraction."
--They're masters at perfecting their online personas but, as Fagan notes, the controlled image these kids present on social media "reduces [the] ability to reach one another when in distress." Keeping up appearances online is one thing, but these kids are often focused on maintaining that same facade offline. Gee. Never getting the space to be real and your social media self begins to interfere with your true self, all while masking potential problems beneath the surface... What could go wrong?
--Because those "life marketing" social media skills come at the expense of real human interaction, these kids are at a disadvantage when real-life happens--especially when there are problems that require articulating emotions that run deeper than an "I'm-so-happy-life-is-so-perfect" Instagram post.
Take all of those factors, along with that group of young people so completely incapable of coping, and consider what would happen in the case of a major life upset.
In Fagan's book, that life upset was Madison Holleran's freshman year of college. (Seriously, does anything suck more than the first year of college?? UGH). If you can remember a world without the Internet, then you probably coped like the rest of us did: you cried to your roommate, got pancakes at 3AM, and finally got wasted friends until some of the stress abated.
But this new generation is different. To understand Madison Holleran's freshman year, take out the human connection and the normalcy in expressing negative emotions that we had. Add in perfectionism, the grueling schedule of a student athlete, and mental illness. And remember the pressure to maintain a perfect social presence, both on and offline, even if it's masking serious inner turmoil.
The result?
A girl who had it all was suddenly facing the dark depths of depression alone, with no understanding of what she was experiencing, no ability to articulate what she was feeling, and a near-zero support system because her Instagram persona kept friends unaware of the depths of her depression.
I suppose I couldn't put this down because I felt a brief pause in my daily rage at Millennials...I mean, it's not their fault that they were raised in front of screens their whole lives. (Actually, that's probably the reason they're like the human equivalent of a popup error message when asked to think outside the box to solve a fuckin problem--but whatever).
It makes them no less irritating, but...
...at least in this case, the story of one digital native who had the potential to be great and lost it all touches you in some way. Fagan's depiction of Maddy's final moments was devoid of sensationalism, maybe even brought tears to my eyes >ahem<, and showed the reality of what these young people are truly robbed of when we teach them how to navigate the Internet but not life itself.
So, extremely well-written, excellent piece of sports journalism, and while not exactly an uplifting read, an important one for understanding the next generation.
Can David Duchovny really write? Meh. Probably. He was an English major at Princeton or something. Whatever. Don't care.
PickeDid I read this book? No.
Can David Duchovny really write? Meh. Probably. He was an English major at Princeton or something. Whatever. Don't care.
Picked this up at a book signing Duchovny was doing a few weeks ago. I've lusted after that guy since I was 13, getting my book signed was supposed to be my chance—you know, my moment to elevate myself from book nerd to starfucker.
Right?
Not so much.
Mr. “Yes-I'm-super-fuckin-hot-in-real-life-too” didn't so much as glance my way—he seemed to prefer to chat it up with my 7-year old instead. (Cock blocked by a 7 year-old. Goddammit).
Chopped liver over here didn't want to tread on the bromance or anything...by all means, boys, keep talking, I'll just stand over here and look at...stuff.
Whatever.
Despite the brushoff, automatic 5 stars for being rad to my kid. :)
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