Books I thought I'd like

Deborah Garrison's The Second Child. The smart Jewish versifying equivalent of Sex in the City moves to New Jersey and breathes quasi-deeply into the experience of suburban living. Read a few poems and then checked out her earlier work. Hated it. And I'm not just saying that because I'm jealous. It scarcely qualifies as poetry, it's all would-be profundity scarcely wrapped in meter.

Rob Sheffield's Love is a Mix Tape. I'll try read some more of this, and I feel tremendously for the guy for losing his wife in the blink of an eye, but this book sucks. Sappy sentimental claptrap wrapped around a self-glorying enumeration of cultural items consumed. All those years of working at Rolling Stone have clearly gone to his head, leaving a 40-year old shilling to his mental image of himself as a 23-year old. Which he ain't.