Pointless

I had intended to write a review of the summer fiction issue of The New Yorker, as this issue had three, count 'em, three, stories by Alice Munro. Then I read the stories and Munro did her usual tricks and there were the same old themes and plots I've seen a trillion times in her work (alienation between mothers and daughters, people who almost have affairs, just how close minded certain Canadians can be, etc.), and yet the stories were good. As usual.

Munro is an immensely talented writer. My complaints came down to this:

1. Three stories by one author in one fiction issue is too much, even if the stories are related.
2. Alice Munro is published too damn often in The New Yorker as it is.
3. Alice Munro is not really good summer reading. She's a nice fall or winter author. Summer reading should be:

a.) fun
b.) exciting
c.) relatively easy and straightforward.
(You're welcome to take issues with my characterizations, as long as at the end of the day you just admit you're wrong.)

And since I can't make much hay with that thin gruel above (and since I liked the stories), I will favor you with a short review of a book I haven't read, won't read, can't imagine the ideal reader of.

Why I Love Baseball, by Larry King, Read by The Author, New Millennium Entertainment, 2004

Who gives a flying fuck? Honest to fucking god, who green-lighted such a shitty idea? Wherever they are, I hope they are soon on their way to hell. I hope the publisher goes right the fuck out of business. Jeebus.

Thanks. Hope this was helpful.