Steve Almond, "(Not that You Asked)", (2007).

For some reason, we are seeing a rash of authors that blur the line between gossip, memoir, and essay during this first decade of the Twentiy-First Century. I suppose it has something to do with the success of David Sedaris. His funny autobiographical/exaggerated tales captivated a new generation of readers, and I suppose we shouldn't complain about that. After all, not many people are reading novels anymore. Still there is something slight about this new wave of young authors. They seem particularly beholden to a transient wave of postmodern irony. I wonder how many folks really expect that these books will still be read fifty years from now. I don't see a lot of candidates for core American Lit curricula.

A few of these writers are consistently entertaining (Sedaris is a blatant example). Others are uneven and cloying. Steve Almond is an illustrative case. The young secular Jew from California claims to write both fiction and non-fiction. But he is best known for Candyfreak : A Journey through the Chocolate Underbelly of America. It documented his quest for candy bars made by small companies. While dealing with a rather insignificant topic, it drew some critical attention and popular success. Candyfreak allowed the author to garner attention from the mainstream media, and resulted in invitations to appear on television. Almond has actually written about his participation in a proposed segment of a VH1 reality show that never aired.

There's a certain narcissism involved in deconstructing one's own relationship with fame. But it's an honest approach given the nature of our society. Our worship of celebrity seems to have no bounds. We've even expanded our definition of the concept to include anyone willing to present a fabricated version of themselves for the edification of the dull masses. This is the new lens through which we view ourselves, and now it's being applied in literary form. You can't really blame Almond for capitalizing on an obvious trend. However you can implicate him for a certain level of bitchiness and a penchant for offering superficial insights on a series of clichéd themes. He seems to actually invite the criticism.

(Not that You Asked) , Almond's 2007 collection of essays, was originally supposed to be entirely focused on the author's admiration for Kurt Vonegut. That's the proposal his publishers bought. We can only speculate on why they decided that they wanted a series of rants instead. Perhaps that's just what the market demands. But I'm hard-pressed to understand why any editor would allow the inclusion of a 12-page, hate-filled screed, directed against the lit blogger Mark Sarvas, and accompanied by a simpleminded dismissal of blogging in general. The only theory I have is that Random House is planning a major release of a Sarvas title in the near future. Regardless, Almond's obsession with his own personal cyber-critic comes off as especially whiny. It also reveals a strange sexual subtext that manages to be troublesome and creepy.

Yet despite the weak points of (Not that You Asked), I feel obligated to present at least a modicum of balance in opinion. I will admit to sharing Almond's basic political perspective. I too find the Bush Administration abhorrent, and Dick Cheney especially scary. I share his enmity for right-wing hacks like Condoleeza Rice, Sean Hannity, and Ann Coulter. I can also relate to his experiences with his new child. I've felt just as helpless in the face of fatherhood as he describes himself. Perhaps the emotional depth and maturity that customarily attends child-rearing will have a beneficial effect on Almond's writing. Maybe (as he suggests) he'll find a character to love as much as he loves himself.

Anthony Haden-Guest, "True Colors" (1996).

Because I can't get enough of the bickering and twisted maneuvers of the New York City arts scene, I decided I 'd plunge ahead and read Anthony Haden-Guest's True Colors (1996). Coincidentally, this book picks off where Burnham's The Art Crowd left off. The year was 1973, and the auction houses were beginning to drive the prices of contemporary art to ridiculously high prices. The Abstract Expressionists were ceding their position at the top of the heap. Pop artists like Jaspar Johns and Robert Rauschenberg were commanding six and even seven figures for their work. And at the same time a group of young wise-assed conceptualists were getting ready to pronounce painting "dead".

Haden-Guest does indeed manage to maintain an extraordinary diplomatic approach to the parade of freaks that inhabit his book. Perhaps he really respects all of those 'revolutionaries' who seemed intent to drive art to its ultimate conclusion. Dennis Oppenheim made his name by making designs on his bare chest with a 2nd degree sunburn. Chris Burden one-upped Oppenheim by having a couple of friends nail him to a Volkswagen and then drive him down the street in the spirit of crucifixion. Still not content, he had himself shot in the arm by another buddy, and displayed photographs of the provocation. Piero Manzoni showed his respect for the dialog by shitting in a series of cans and trying to sell them to collectors. Shortly after that he committed suicide.

Things were moving fast and furious in the 70's. Leo Castelli finally began to show his age, and gallery owners like Mary Boone and Holly Solomon started their ascendancy. Just as people started to sour on performance art, Julian Schnabel and David Salle ushered in the era of Neo-Expressionism. Donald Judd and James Turrell worked their formally academic magic in the harsh austerity of the desert. And a second wave of pop artists hit the island, merging itself in complex and confrontational ways with Graffiti and other forms of street art. Jean-Michel Basquiat, Kenny Scharf and Keith Haring received the approval of the Great Andy Warhol, and became household names.

True Colors documents the ridiculously excessive 80's, which ushered in an art boom that mirrored the 16th Century Dutch obsession with tulips. Larry Gagosian became So-Ho's super dealer of the secondary market, and consolidated his ever-growing empire of power. It was a time marked by Jeff Koons, who seemed to exemplify the perversity of the era by issuing a series of photographs that depicted him having some very distracted sex with his future wife- an Italian model named La Cicciolina. His excessive whimsy (or whimsical excess?) somehow distracted an entire generation of critics and collectors. And while the market seemed to outlast the economic downturn brought on by too many years of Ronald Reagan, a crash was imminent.

The 90's would bring a significant lull in the excitement of the NYC arts scene. Warhol was dead, and no one was buying. But a new generation of art stars like Matthew Barney and Damien Hirst were waiting (not-so-patiently-in-the-wings) to receive their fair share of adulation. So the story continues apace until the end of the century. And it's a brisk read. Unlike Burnham, Anthony Haden-Guest doesn't spare us the bitchery so endemic in the epicenter of the art world. That's a good thing, because the reader is all-the-more-entertained by this fortunate choice. There's nothing that can make us feel truly one with the scene than a heaping dollop of oil-based gossip. Who said what about whom, and why does it matter? Haden-Guest was there to tell us about it later.