Not all Young Adult Lit is created equal...

"Harry Potter is all about confronting fears, finding inner strength, and doing what is right in the face of adversity. Twilight is about how important it is to have a boyfriend."
                                                                                                             -Stephen King

Since completing a class in my English Education program entitled "Young Adult Literature," I've taken a greater interest in the genre. Prior, I hadn't even know such a niche existed. I'm not sure if it's because my first year of teaching is approaching, or it just happened coincidentally, but I've really buried myself in easy-to-read, hormone-infested books that deal with coming-of-age, high school life, and life-changing decisions.

The unfortunate, most recent of these books, and the one which ultimately inspired this diatribe, was the fourth and final installment of the Twilight series, entitled Breaking Dawn. Simply put, it sucked. 754 pages of basically nothing happening, whatsoever.  **SPOILER ALERT:** here is my brief plot synopsis.

Bella, the humanoid fiancee of Edward, you know, Robert Pattinson, the gorgeous, perfectly chiseled vampire (I only mention that because it's mentioned eight million times throughout all four books), finally ties the knot with said vampire. The two honeymoon, and reluctantly bust humps, despite Edward's reservations about his strength being too much for Bella to handle. Bella gets knocked up, (because all it takes is once, kiddies, even when you know it's impossible) despite their prior belief that it wasn't possible since, apparently, becoming a vampire prohibits baby vampires from swimming down the ol' Egg River. As Bella is giving birth to the half baby/half vampire, she inevitably faces complications. To save her, Edward turns her into a vampire.  That would cover the first 500 pages or so.

I was hoping that the final 254 pages would present some sort of climax, and while it hinted at one, I'd say any sort of action in the book was sorely lacking. The Volturi, or vampire Gestapo if you will, catches wind of this monster baby, terribly named "Renesmee" (a combination of Bella's mother's name, Renee, and Edward's mother, Esme. UGH.), and have to decide whether to kill terribly-named monster baby or let her live in happiness and harmony with her perfectly beautiful mother and father. (Again, there is no shortage throughout on emphasizing how important perfect looks are.) I sensed and hoped for some sort of fight, but alas, they solved the problem diplomatically, and all involved parties live happily, and beautifully, ever after.

Another aspect of the book that made my eyes roll back in their sockets so badly that they nearly fell out was the "love" that now-married Bella showed for her "best friend," werewolf, and husband's mortal ex-enemy Jacob. Another 200 pages or so were devoted to Bella jerking Jacob around, telling him she loved him, touching him, embracing...I didn't know otherwise impregnable vampiresses were such teases to werewolves. And congratulations, Stephanie Meyer, for finding out how to extend 200 pages of material (tops!) into 754 long, agonizing pages of useless description, streams of consciousness, and emotional self-analyses.

Oh but wait, I know why. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was 759 pages, and they made two movies out of it. (Albeit much, much better story telling, character development, and plot twists occur throughout the entire Potter series as opposed to the scat that Meyer wrote for Twilight.) Not to be outdone, it's only fitting that Hollywood drag this out for as long as possible, as Breaking Dawn will also be released theatrically in two parts. I can only imagine the first installment will mostly focus on Bella and Edward romantically nuzzling and embracing for a good 90 minutes.

Not all is lost, though. I'd highly recommend any of the following Young Adult books, even for the most seasoned of readers. They're light, an easy read, and at times, can take you back to your lost and frequently forgotten younger years.

The Hunger Games Trilogy (The Hunger Games, Catching Fire, and Mockingjay) by Suzanne Collins

Pros: Surprisingly, it provided a pretty good escape and painted a vivid picture of a futuristic world lost in the madness of entertaining itself by putting their children in a field to fight to the death. The books were never dragged out or too long. I was surprised by the frank manner in which Collins presented death throughout the series -- apparently kids aged 13-18 have a gloomier view on reality than my somewhat sheltered generation did. We'll see the first installment of this trilogy hitting theaters sometime in 2012, with an interesting cast featuring side characters played by Woody Harrelson, Donald Sutherland, and Lenny Kravitz.

Cons: Another wishy-washy "should I choose him, or him?" relationship quandary exists throughout this series, but not as aggravating as the one presented in Twilight. Of course, with nearly all Y.A. lit, this trilogy, at times, became rather predictable.

My rating:  Good, very entertaining, but not great.


Divergent by Veronica Roth

Pros: This thick book, just released in May of 2011, didn't really meander or drag on in an unnecessary fashion. The main character, Beatrice, was fairly interesting to keep tabs on, and the romance within the book never got to a level that made me gag. The action, plot, and the general way the story unfolded made me want to continue reading. The action and death presented, similarly to The Hunger Games, are rather blunt and straightforward. I also thought it neat that Roth included Chicago landmarks and buildings within the plot, as this takes place in a futuristic rendition of The Second City. I'm excited for the next installment of the trilogy to come out, rumored to happen in May of 2012, and apparently the book rights were just purchased by Hollywood execs, so expect a movie by 2013, I'd guess.

Cons: You never really find out why their weird, futuristic society (which is divided into five "factions") ended up in their current state. I'm guessing, and hoping, that this is detailed in the next book. Otherwise, I'd say it's a rather huge oversight.

My rating: I'd put this near the top of the list in entertaining Y.A. books I've read, although the lack of explanation about their society keeps it from attaining "great" status. For now.


The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky

Pros: I was naturally inclined to like this book since it's been banned or challenged by many schools. And undoubtedly, its inclusion of sex, drugs, alcohol, and homosexuality would trigger those crazy, suburban, right-winged mothers to think they're bigger than the 1st Amendment. Although controversial topics abound, they're presented in a very realistic manner that any student going through high school did or is bound to encounter. It's tough not to sympathize with the protagonist, Charlie, throughout this book, and clocking in at just under 200 pages, it's a remarkably quick, easy, and enjoyable read.  Wallflower is also due out in theaters in 2012, with Emma Watson (more popularly known as Hermione from the Harry Potter movies) playing Sam, the unattainable love of Charlie's life.

Cons: I've got no literary qualms with this book. It gets a little sad from time to time, but hey, life is tough and Chbosky does a spot-on job of telling it like it is.

My rating: Read it. Then read it again.

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Judging by the number of books you'll find now in the "Young Adult" section of Barnes and Noble, it's no secret that the genre is taking off with all sorts of new series that are not your mom-and-pop's version of children's books. And no, not all of them are about vampires. The genre will only get bigger, especially with all of these books finding their ways to the silver screen in the next year. Don't hate...in fact, I'm proud to admit that I don't even call them "guilty pleasures" anymore.

Welcome back, Hell's Kitchen

Call it terrible television. Call it watching culinary trainwrecks getting absolutely demoralized by a hot-headed, 5-star Michelin chef. Call it a guilty pleasure. But whatever you call it, I can't seem to stop watching.

Hell's Kitchen, under chef Gordon Ramsay, just launched its ninth season, which is admittedly at least four or five more than I ever thought it would celebrate. The show is an unabashed ripoff of Bravo's Top Chef, but produced, unsurprisingly, with FOX standards. Whereas Top Chef focuses primarily on the chefs, and actually attracts good talent, Hell's Kitchen is a mismatch of how-have-you-not-been-run-over-by-a-bus-type contestants and about five or six promising, up-and-coming cooks.

Being in its ninth go-round, the show is on the verge of becoming formulaic, if not there already. Punishments, rewards, and tendencies are completely transparent by this point, and I'm not only talking about "losers clean the kitchen." There's the standard episode where losers have to unload the truck of deliveries and inevitably don't read the invoice, consequently accepting incorrect or damaged product, enraging chef Ramsay even more than usual. The challenges have been repeated so many times by now that I can tell who's going to win or lose and why before chef Ramsey even utters his popular criticisms and lashings. There's always one moment per season that is billed as "the biggest twist in Hell's Kitchen history," but turns out to be an a former punishment with the addition of not getting lunch. I could go on.

But then again, Hell's Kitchen has never really been about showcasing talent...at least until the final two or three episodes. It's more about seeing the meltdowns and failures of the also-formulaic contestants, and then watching chef Ramsay belittle those individuals by calling them any name out of a variety of favorites, including "wanker," the classic "bitch," "big boy," or my personal favorite, "donkey."

Another one bites the dust.

The intital episodes always showcase the worst, so as not to let the most talented chefs be spotted so early in the season. There's the stereotypical fat guy who either can't handle the stress of the kitchen, or can't cut it medically. (Incidentally, it's 28 minutes into the season 9 premier and "Jason" from Chicago has already been taken to the hospital for chest pain and shortness of breath. Seriously? You didn't even cook anything yet!) There's the standard overconfident contestant on each team -- the overbearing, usually crazy Alpha-female who rivals the worst Bridezilla imaginable, and the cocky male who boasts "I don't care what chef Ramsay says, I know my cooking is great." And possibly my favorite, the middle-aged guy who always knows what he's doing is perfect until Ramsay has the unfortunate task of telling him that he completely sucks at what he's been doing his entire life. FOX has the casting for the show down to a science, really.

That's not to say that the show, towards the end of each season, doesn't actually showcase some surprising talent. But let's be serious here...in no way does this "talent" ever equal, or even rival in a distant way, the talent on Top Chef.

If Top Chef is the over-achieving, perfect-featured, well-dressed cousin who attends an Ivy League college, Hell's Kitchen is, without a doubt, the adopted, guitar-playing-in-the-garage, chain-smoking, long-haired, acne-riddled high school drop-out. That's not to say it's no fun watching the trainwreck, though.

Thank you World Cup.

I've really come a long way since my indifference to soccer pre-2002, when I was living in a huge, Real World-esque house with 7 strangers. (Except they were all ladies who knew each other -- I was the stranger.) My recently acquired BFF, Dan Mirman, somehow injected the World Cup bug into my veins. I'm not sure I even knew what the World Cup truly was prior to that summer, but we'd either stay up late to watch the "early" men's matches at roughly 2 or 3 a.m., or wake up at 5 a.m. to watch the "late" matches as they were broadcast live from South Korea and Japan. My roomies would come home from the bars to find us grilling burgers and cheering on Cameroon and Italy. And we got some seriously weird looks when grilling out at 5:15 a.m. for a U.S.A. match one morning. But, that was the summer of enlightenment when anything went, and watching soccer at 5 a.m. while eating burgers for breakfast was the norm.

I followed last summer's South African World Cup most seriously, partly because I was still hooked from the good times and memories of summer of 2002, and partly because I was unemployed and had the means to watch every single match. I started to understand the intricacies of the game -- it wasn't simply a bunch of dudes running up and down a huge field anymore. I began to see the strategies, the fouls; I finally started to understand what the hell "offside" meant; and adopted an affinity for terms like "equalizer" and the ethos that shots can be "unlucky." I followed the U.S. men devotedly, from the dramatic Donovan goal against Angola to their unfortunate demise to Ghana. (Hey, if it had to be anyone, I didn't mind an African team beating the U.S. to advance. It was, after all, their own home turf...kind of.) I developed favorite players, from Uruguay's Diego Forlan to Argentina's Lionel Messi and their belovable coach, Diego Maradona.

Feeling a void this summer, I was excited when the Women's World Cup tournament started from Germany. And, as a bonus, I wouldn't have to watch live matches at 4 a.m. While the top-ranked U.S. women cruised through their first two matches in group stage, they stuttered against a resilient and unforgiving Swedish team. Instead of the easier quarterfinal match against Australia, the loss paired the stars-and-stripes up against Brazil, a renowned football powerhouse.

The match was frustrating despite an own-goal from Brazil only 2 minutes into the match. For the remainder of the first half and most of the second, the U.S. seemed to be simply defending their lead, not plying to extend it. Finally, Brazil scored on a penalty kick gift after several bunk calls and a red card penalty on U.S. Having to play one person down and against the momentum of Brazil's goal, it seemed as if the U.S. women had met their match. Despite countless corners, free kicks and centered break-aways, the U.S. simply couldn't will the ball into the net.

Already in extra time, and fast approaching the 120-minute mark, the refs granted 3 extra minutes of stoppage time. After an unsuccessful corner kick, the announcer repeated that the U.S. had seemingly run out of time and attempts, until Megan Rapinoe centered a lengthy pass to Abby Wambach for a serious last-second goal at 122 minutes in to send the match to penalty kicks. Still, a day-and-a-half after the goal was scored, I struggle to remember any sports moment as clutch, exciting, and amazing as the one I witnessed at the end of this match.

Even 9 years ago, enthralled by the men's World Cup matches in the early morning hours while consuming grilled meat products, I never would have imagined that "soccer," "women's," and "World

"Great sport. Pele turned me onto it back
in the day when we were chasing honeys."

Cup" would have been the descriptors of one of, if not the most memorable and exciting sports moment in my sports spectating career. While I can't say I'm as enthusiastic about "football" as Dennis Hopper in Entourage, you can certainly bet that I'll be camped in front of a TV for every World Cup for the remainder of my life.

Egotistical writer reviews egotistical rapper : Kanye West 6/30/11

I had reservations. Admittedly, I haven't been as much of a fan of Kanye West's latter half of his career as the first half. It's not difficult to see that Kanye's success has given him the ego of Puff Daddy. Er, P-Diddy. Er wait, Diddy. No, I believe it's Diddy Dirty Money these days. At least Kanye sticks to one name.

Kanye's 808s and Heartbreaks left a sour taste in my mouth. I've never liked the auto-tune sound and the album was much more R&B than hip-hop/rap. I know, I've been told that his stab at an auto-tune album was to prove his versatility, that he's great at everything. That's an ethos I can get down with -- I love to prove, especially to ladies, that I'm good at everything too. But I draw the line at auto-tuned R&B. I digress, though. While I don't give Kanye's newest effort, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, as much acclaim as the five-stars that Pitchfork.com awarded it, there are many impressive tracks which re-piqued my interest in Kanye's musical direction.

I wasn't completely surprised that the Kanye West/Kid CuDi billing at Summerfest's Marcus Amphitheater on June 30 didn't sell out (I'd estimate attendance at 20,000; full capacity is 23,000) but the crowd truly did bring the heat. I've been to my fair share of concerts where fans sat on their hands, and contrarily, bounced off the walls. This show certainly gravitated toward the latter, proving itself a sing-along throw-down that primarily consisted of all of Kanye's greatest hits, new and old.

After coming on 15 minutes past when he should have, Kanye predictably opened the show with "Dark Fantasy," the opening track from his latest release. He performed this song, and most of the other tracks from Fantasy, flanked by dancers, or ballerinas, or some artistic combination of the two. Surprisingly, amidst f- and n-bombs, the artsy tutu-clad dancers worked. Don't ask...maybe it was a "had-to-be-there" thing. It flowed naturally into "POWER," with 20,000 strong chanting the backing vocals, which pretty much amped up everyone in the crowd and set the bar pretty high for the remainder of the show. "Jesus Walks" (admittedly lower on my totem pole of favorite Kanye songs) and "Can't Tell Me Nothing" followed, showcasing some of West's fancy footwork and lyrical prowess.

My show-mate, an admitted Kanye West fanboy, kept talking about how West is just there to give you the best show ever. And, usually when I hear this sort of thing, I dismiss it. I'm not sure if Kanye really does walk out on stage with the sole intention of giving "the fans" the best show they've ever seen; I guess only Kanye himself would know that. But, I must say, he is quite the showman and truly does put on an impressive performance, especially considering that most rap concerts are terrible stage shows. Kanye exhibited a huge Greek-goddess backdrop, featured the aforementioned artsy dancers throughout the newer tracks, and beyond that simply kept things interesting on stage through dancing and maintaining the crowd's attention. Not bad, West.

Beyond the impressive stage presence, it's tough to not get into a show that features, simply put, a lot of good songs. The middle of the show turned into a greatest hits hour, with Kanye hitting on "Touch the Sky," "Gold Digger," "Through the Wire," "All Falls Down," Flashing Lights," "Good Life," and "Homecoming," before closing his main set with "Stronger." He even brought out Kid CuDi for their mixed-tape bomb "Poke Her Face," which I played on the way to the show because there was "no way they're playing this tonight." Damn you for making me look like a foolish n00b, Kanye.




I really only found two, perhaps three, disappointing aspects to Kanye's show. The first, which is something that is quite typical at most rap shows: he performed only a verse of many of his older songs. On one hand, I'm happy to hear the song instead of it not being played at all, but to hear only a verse of "Through the Wire," "All Falls Down," and "Homecoming" is really more than a tease. Secondly, and this is just the jaded snob in me, I wish he would have hit on a few more older tunes, specifically "Breathe In Breathe Out" and "Get 'Em High" -- although, to be fair, I pretty much wish this at every concert I see.

The third reason for disappointment was a noodle-scratcher altogether. After Kanye's rendition of Stronger, the artsy ballerinas draped the entire stage in a huge white sheet while the backing DJ played "Chariots of Fire" for about 3 minutes. I suppose this served as an encore break, which I didn't think was a negative aspect to the show, but the song selection after the sheet-incident was questionable at best. Kanye re-emerged with new wardrobe and proceded to close the show with "Runaway," one of his dragged-out, over-produced songs off Fantasy, then an 808s & Heartbreaks tune (see above comments on 808s), and finally wrapped things up with a fake-emotional rendition of "Hey Mama," complete with (probably) fake tears after he collapsed to the stage floor. After a show full of raw energy and ass-shaking beats, to end on such a melancholy note with presumably fake crying seemed odd, if not altogether poor.

Aside from the final three songs, the show was not only a fun one, but was surprisingly good to these hyper-critical ears.

Young Hov' "the billionaire":
accept no substitutes

Post-review note: To the youngins out there, the same who probably don't know that "Stronger" is a Daft Punk song that Kanye West just raps over, the whole "diamond" sign that you make?  Yeah, that's a Jay-Z thing. I can maybe understand doing it during Kanye's song "Diamonds from Sierra Leone" -- maybe. But seriously, it's a Jay-Z thing, and as good as Kanye may have been, he is no Jay-Z, so stop giving it up for Kanye like he's Young Hov' himself.