“I wrote 63 songs this year. They’re all about Jeter.” Just kidding. The game we love, the players we hate, and more.
From Norman Mailer to Wendy Pepper — everything on film, TV, books, music, and snacks (shut up, raisins), plus the Girls’ Bike Club.
Helping public schools, winning prizes, sending a crazy lady in a tomato costume out in public.
Monologues, travelogues, fiction, and fart humor. And hens. Don’t forget the hens.
The Tomato Nation advice column addresses your questions on etiquette, grammar, romance, and pet misbehavior. Ask The Readers about books or fashion today!
I’d read enough sterling reviews that I half expected to be disappointed, or think it was gimmicky, but it’s really good, and Paul Giamatti has deserved this kind of star turn for a while now. …
Just completely and irredeemably terrible, with the possible exception of David Alan Grier. It’s like the worst SNL sketches in history all strung together, AND you glimpse Ed Begley Jr.’s penis, which GOOD GOD …
(Don’t ask. It’s for work.) Blech. I loved the book, and the elements of the movie are not bad — except for Penelope Cruz, who just is not an actress — but …
Herzog is off-puttingly self-congratulatory, and I wish he hadn’t bothered mentioning all the players he could tell had drug problems if he’s not going to name some damn names, and I know it’s the fashion …
Hated it. Stomped on it when I finished reading it. Condescending, priggish, hypocritical, poorly written pap. Loathsome book.
The writing can be kind of pro forma at times, but Rathbone does paint a vivid picture most of the time. My only real complaint is that I’d have liked more follow-up on some …
It is — to the surprise of nobody, I’m sure — an excellent book. It’s funny, it’s touching, and it’s so smoothly written that you just can’t stop reading it; I finished it in …
While it’s hardly even-handed (and also REALLY hard to read because, in the original, he typeset it himself and his caps alignment is fucked, so it’s like reading a really small-fonted term paper), it’s really …
Eh. Not nearly enough dirt, the interstitial bits with Jerry are forced — if you read the excerpt in Vanity Fair, you don’t need to read the whole thing.