There’s nothing quite so awful as getting caught in a lie– particularly if, like me, you are an absolutely terrible liar. There’s the shortness of breath, the burning ears, the disconcerting sense that somehow, somewhere, your mother knows what you have done and is really disappointed in you … hoo, boy, it’s The Pits.

But catching someone else in a lie?

Well, that’s just good fun.

July 2nd at the Bryant Park Reading Room, writer Andy Christie hosts a very special edition of The Liar Show: a whimsical collection of personal anecdotes by four of New York’s lovely young literary things. Each performer shares a story, but – and this is where the lying comes in – one of said stories is completely and totally untrue.

Says the show’s website:

After the stories have been told, all four performers return to the stage and defend their stories while the audience rakes them over the coals with a fact-finding question and answer session, refereed by the host.
Each audience member casts a ballot and when the Liar is revealed, the perceptive geniuses who have guessed correctly walk away with a prize T-shirt amid a bitter chorus of “Congratulations, Einstein,” from the empty-handed losers.

There is no mention of what happens to the lying liar who lied; perhaps he is forced to exit the auditorium with his pants around his ankles while the audience points and laughs.
Tomorrow’s performance features four splendid writers: Ophira Eisenberg, author of I Killed: True Stories of the Road from American’s Top Comics ; Alix Strauss, author of Have I Got a Guy for You: What Really Happens When Mom Fixes You Up ; Eve Lederman, author of Shag’s Little Book of Love: Dating, Mating, and Mischief Making ; and James Braly, author of Life in a Marital Institution .
Stop by Bryant Park tomorrow at 12:30pm for your chance to play interrogator, judge and jury. I’d totally go, but I have to… um… wash my hair.*
*Ok, ok, I lied. I’m actually going on a date. With your mom.
The Bryant Park Reading Room is located on the 42nd Street side of the park between the back of the NYPL & 6th Avenue.

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If autumn the season for serious media, then summer is all about The Trash. Beach reads, superhero movies, ice cream – no doubt about it, warm weather is guilty pleasure time. And if you’re still nose-deep that thick historical biography once June 21st rolls around then you, sir, are doing it wrong.

This Saturday marked the official first day of summer, and the first of eleven Long Hot Weekends that won’t be complete without some truly trashy reading material. So today on Waxing Literary, I’m pleased to present a roundup of one month’s worth of dirty literary fun.

Go on… you know you want to.

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Greenpoint, Brooklyn, isn’t just any neighborhood — it’s my neighborhood! And so I’m especially pleased to be highlighting one of its best little retail spaces in this latest installment of Waxing Literary.

Word Books, situated on one of the loveliest historic blocks in Greenpoint’s Franklin Street shopping area, is an indie gem through and through. As with many independent booksellers, the store’s smallish confines mean that they can’t carry Every Last Thing, but the eclectic mix of mainstream bestsellers, books by local authors, pop culture paraphernalia and kitschy gifts means that you’re bound to find something that tickles you. (Case in point: I once stopped in while Christmas shopping and walked away with a magnet that said, “Life is too short to dance with ugly men”, and The Cunt Coloring Book [Note: link NSFW in a black-and-white line drawing of vaginas sort of way] . )
Not only that, but if you can’t find what you’re looking for, the staff will fall all over themselves to special-order it for you.

What can I say? They’re just really nice .

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Ah, summer! The hazy days of June are upon us, and with them, all those little aural extras that come with the warm weather: the constant song of the ice cream truck, the laughter of children playing in sprinklers, the sweet chirp-chirp of little bluebirds as they flit from tree to tree.
And above it all, the ecstatic moans of teenagers getting it on in cars.

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After a whirly weekend of all things Sex and the City (seriously, was it possible to so much as walk down the street during the past few days without tripping over Sarah Jessica Parker’s ubiquitous image?) I have just about had it with the fab SATC foursome and their insipid culture of cosmo-sipping, handbag-worshipping, man-chasing life-about-town. And, as with any other relationship that’s run its course and left us feeling used and unwanted, some rebound sex is in order… preferably with a totally unsuitable individual who is everything one’s former lover was NOT.

Unfortunately, because this is the books column, I am not really supposed to write about sex– even when it’s dirty, sweaty, ill-advised revenge sex that everybody likes. No, that subject matter is the exclusive domain of Brian “Holding Hans ” Hansbury. (Not that he takes advantage of it, the jackass.)

And so I am left to work within the confines of Literary-Figurative Rebound Sex, rather than Real Rebound Sex, and that is why, today, I am writing about Sylvia Plath.

No, really!
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It’s the ultimate beach read: Hot Mess, a Sex & the City-style romp through summertime New York, replete with late-night partying, dreary office jobs, shopping extravaganzas and cute boys!

The book has a lot in common with other contemporary fiction aimed at women (here at Waxing Literary, we do not use the word “chick-lit”), but for one essential difference: it’s actually not aimed at women.

Instead, it’s this summer’s YA must-read, which means it’s more likely to appeal to the younger siblings of this site’s readership… or those who, like me, have somehow reached adulthood with an interest in all things teen-y still intact. (Hey, it’s not my fault that Delia’s won’t stop sending me their catalog.)

After getting such a kick out of Hot Mess, I was excited last week to interview Julie Kraut, one of its co-authors. Read on for her insights about teen angst, writing for a younger audience, and the secret inspiration for the character known as “The Dorf”.

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The New York Public Library has always inspired awe amongst visitors to New York. Those huge stone lions! That sprawling façade! That scene in Breakfast At Tiffany’s where Audrey Hepburn convinces George Peppard to sign the first edition of his book whilst the librarian angrily squawks, “You can’t do that!” It’s even the supposed site of choice for Carrie’s wedding in the upcoming SATC movie.

But based on an informal survey of my friends — New Yorkers, all — it appears that the city’s natives tend to ignore the New York Public Library, preferring instead to hang about in back of the building and pound Bud Light with dudes at the Bryant Park bar.

This is a mistake, and not just because the guys who hang out at that bar are slimy.

Complaints about the NYPL tend to follow the same thread: that it’s too difficult to get books. And it’s true that the current must-reads tend to disappear for months on end as soon as they’re released (meaning that those who reserve December’s bestseller du jour will get a phone call the following July letting them know that the book is now available. Gee, thanks, Library.)

But for a literary experience that doesn’t include the latest by Dan Brown, you can’t get a more stunning backdrop. Here, a few ways to enjoy your time in that glorious beaux-arts building, no six-month wait required.
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January 26, 2006, was a truly unique moment in history. It was the day that two distinct and different groups – the New York Literati and the Three O’Clock Daytime Television-Watchers – found themselves side by side on the couch, united by the groundbreaking opportunity to witness a renowned author’s shocking, shameful, nationally-televised fall from grace.

I was still working in publishing on the day that James Frey, recently unmasked as a fraud memoirist, appeared on Oprah to receive what would be one of the world’s most widely-publicized haranguings. When 3:00 PM rolled around, the whole place was like a tomb. Every cubicle and most of the offices were empty. Everyone was crowded into conference rooms, ready to watch the poor guy’s fate unfold in real time.

And now, of course, James Frey is back with more fiction – er, except this time it’s actually being marketed as such.

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The past few years have been a sad time for independent bookstores; it seems like a new one closes every day, forced into an early demise by the 40% off rack at Wal-Mart or the clickily convenient Amazon. But with Publishers Weekly predicting a rebound in sales for indie sellers, and the corporate fat cats bottoming out in these rougher economic times, the tide may be about to turn — particularly in New York, where whether because of die-hard neighborhood pride or the proliferation of storefronts too small to house a Barnes & Noble, independent bookstores can still be found scattered around the boroughs — offering everything from highly-specific niche titles to locally-oriented book groups.

In the name of preserving New York’s eclectic entrepreneurial spirit (and hopefully staving off the Big Corporate Bookstore’s reign of terror), I’ll be doing a regular feature wherein I profile a lovely little bookstore in the area — so that you, knowing where they are, might stop in.

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Shortly after I moved to New York to work in publishing, a friend of mine beelined across the room at a party, grabbed me by the arm and shrieked, “I’m reading the most awesome book! There’s this kid in it, and he’s living with a crazy psychiatrist and his family, and they try to predict the future by looking at the shape of their poop !”

Such was my (admittedly incomplete) introduction to the writing of Augusten Burroughs.

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