Memoirs Of A Geisha

Ivy politely asks "how is it, anyway?"

Well, Ivy. I'll tell you. [And everyone else]

I think I'm broken somehow, because everyone seems to love this book. The back cover is slathered in gushy praise and all the review sites laud it as the Second Coming of Literature.

I, however, think of this book in much the same way I view the front half of EPCOT, Kix cereal, and most pieces by Mahler. I don't care how fun you try to make it, it's still just a 'good-for-you' fieldtrip type thing. Dead boring.

One of my brother's best friends is the Whitest Guy Alive. His whole life he's romanticized and fantacized about Asian women. I have nothing against Asian Women, as long as they don't talk on their cellphones in bookstores or break up legendary rock bands with their underhanded deviousness. But there just seem to be people (mainly fellas) who fall in love with that culture, and that world. The man who wrote this book seems to be cast from that mold. Just your average white guy who thinks that there's nothing sexier than the world as seen through his Flower Drum Schlong. So this book is the sum total of his collection of factoids about an Asian subculture, as viewed through his Anglicized eyes. That, more than anything else, gets me. It purports to be an honest look inside a subculture. I'm not from that subculture, but I've read books by people who are and there's a definite difference. Memoirs seems forced--more like a Harvard Asianophile FanFiction.

But hey. You can borrow my copy if you wanna read it.

Updated to add the "An" that was in my mind, but didn't make it to the keyboard. There are many subcultures within the Asian culture. Geishadom is but one of those. I hate that I implied that Asian Culture is just a subculture. That was the stupidest typo ever. And no, I didn't get an email about it. I'm editing my own self.