LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
BOOKED Solid |
A Review By Rebecca James |
Are You There Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea Chelsea Handler (2008)
Perhaps there are some people on this planet who have never invoked alcohol as a muse, but they don't live in my world. In my reality, dinner is best sipped with the ones you love, or at least the ones who entertain you. Failing their presence, at least you can talk to the bartender and your Guinness. Or red wine. Or vodka. They usually listen better, anyway. In case you were wondering, I truly have no problem sitting at a bar by myself. In fact, I just did it last night. Sat at a bar alone, that is. I only had a short conversation with my Guinness (something sexy like, "I'm so glad you are here; you taste delicious"), however, since both the bartender and my text message signal were attentive to my other needs. It's pathetically refreshing to admit this, almost like going to an AA meeting except you don't actually have to stop drinking. If you found my little confession at all entertaining, then Chelsea Handler is the author for you. A nationally-known stand up comic, Handler has already had one bestseller (My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One Night Stands), and her latest memoir, Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea has put her on the list once again. Her book is a reflection on her life, lies, lovers, and libations. Like many comediennes, she relies heavily on her dysfunctional (aren't they always?) parents for material. They provided plenty. After one spectacular lie in grade school (she claimed she was starring in a film with Goldie Hawn to deter the teasing she was enduring), her father thought the best solution would be to simply go back to school and tell the truth which any grade school student can tell you is social suicide. "It would have seemed completely appropriate to my father for me to hold a press conference in the school's auditorium the next day, wearing a helmet with a maxipad stuck to my forehead while announcing into the microphone that I'd been a "bad, bad girl, and I've also been known to shit my pants." This writer doesn't limit herself to childhood experiences, though. Handler recalls her one and only DUI experience with the repentance of a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. Punishment avoidance may not be the best reason to catch a cab home with your alcohol muse, but it works. Since she was only 21 at the time (with a BAC of 2.4), it's understandable that she did not demonstrate the greatest judgment when dealing with the arresting officer: "'Miss, you can either take a Breathalyzer here, or we can test your urine down at the station. Which do you prefer?' 'That depends,' I said. 'Is there any way to detect marijuana through a Breathalyzer?' [...He] went to retrieve the invention I now feel immense hatred forthe Breathalyzer is second only to the answering machine, which has led to three separate breakups." Irreverent? She also has an entire chapter dedicated to her difficulties sleeping with a man with red haireverywhere. He had, apparently, a "baseball mound of red pubic hair that looked like it had literally been attached with a glue gun." She speculates what kind of man fails to notice that the men in the porn he must be watching did not have what she describes as "a clown in a leg lock." Ouch. Readers with queasy stomachs, acknowledged addiction problems, pet fish, or sensitivities to very frank conversations about lesbian sex in prison should probably avoid Handler's book. Otherwise, you'll find that her smart, flippant style is a perfect combination of youthful abandon and a decade of perfecting the semi-single party life. Her friends are not immune to her mocking, either. On one particularly Amy Winehouse-inspired British vacation, she invites her friend Sarah along since Sarah's fianc left her two weeks before the wedding. "The thing about Sarah is that she can be a lot of fun to be around. She's smart, she's funny, she drinks like a fish, but she has way too much energy for someone without a crystal meth addiction. 'Hey asshole,' I told her. 'This isn't a scavenger hunt. You need to relax. [...] Can't we just go to a pub and get some bloody fish and chips?'" Finally, Handler comes full circle. She returns her attention to her now-widowed father (a.k.a. "Bitch Tits"). She schedules them a vacation in Costa Rica with a friend (Shoniqua) and her mother (Latifa) (her very Jewish father refers to them as "Black Magic and Black Magic's Mama). Handler recounts much of the vacation through S.O.S. emails she sent her siblings throughout their time together. Readers will be treated to Handler's discomfort discussing sex with Bitch Tits several times throughout the vacation, especially when he thinks Black Magic's Mama has a crush on him: "'I am not equipped to perform in that capacity anymore. She's only fifty-two, and women that age are still in their prime and looking for penetration.' [...] 'Dad, I don't mean to burst your bubble, but I don't think Latifa is interested in being penetrated by you.'" I think what I like best is that most books with this type of bawdy, foul-mouthed, drawn-out adolescent humor are usually written by men. Could Chelsea Handler be a post-feminist (if there is such a thing) hero? We're about the same age, and I find it more than comforting that we are allowed to acknowledge this aspect of ourselves. I've been chastised for using the f-word in conjunction with a Xerox machine at school/work (a machine most deserving of any application of that word in any grammatical form), challenged to a patron-drinking contest (I don't remember who won, but I think it was the tequila), and found myself, yes, invoking Guinness as my muse late at night, alone in a bar with my empty text messaging inbox. It's about time I had some fun there, and Chelsea Handler (and her book) makes an excellent companion. Rebecca James divides her time between teaching and grad school in Pennsylvania and reading and relaxing in Rehoboth Beach. Got a comment or book to recommend? Email her at james.rebeccaa@gmail.com. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 18, No. 06 May 30, 2008 |