Book:  HOTEL CRYSTAL | Olivier Rolin / Dalkey Archive
There is no conceit that I find more infuriating than the notion of metafiction. So I was pleasantly surprised to find that this thoroughly post-modern novel engrossed me. The long and short: an “editor” stumbles upon an abandoned briefcase, and he takes it upon himself to fastidiously assemble the random collection of texts found within. While these texts might seem like simple descriptions of hotel rooms, their author—named “Olivier Rolin”—is apparently embroiled in some sort of noirish espionage network filled with spies and international political intrigue. Okay, so this self-referential novel might be more engaging for students of literature, but it’s still a metric ton better than anything produced by the likes of Eggers and David Fuckwit Wallace.

CD:  S/T | Chin Chin / Definitive Jux
This is some flat-out Galactic-style hippie bullshit, and I expected much better from the fine folks at Def Jux. The sound is utterly too-cool-for-school; there’s no grit, no tension, and no sexuality, floundering in some half-baked notion of soul-brotha funk with beats that hit with all the force of a limp dick to the face. Avoid this disc if you generally steer clear of the pot-smoking masses down at Cary Street Café, and pick up a good DC go-go album instead.

CD:  NARROW STAIRS | Death Cab for Cutie / Atlantic
There is an uncertain ironic quality to the notion that a band of thirty-somethings could release a seventh straight album of middling, whispery indie guitar pop and still show absolutely no musical growth whatsoever. I’ve coughed up bits of my own lung that were infinitely more interesting than the entirety of this piss-poor excuse for music. This is the perfect album for barely pubescent girls and dirty old men who bust a nut to the thought of barely pubescent girls.

Book:  UNACCUSTOMED EARTH | Jhumpa Lahiri / Knopf
Why is it that nearly every goddamn ethnic writer has to write about the so-called culture divide between their native heritage and the American way, perpetuating a dangerous fixation on the concept of the Other? This flaccid collection of short stories was a whole lot better when it was called The Joy Luck Club; in fact, the book’s only redeeming aspect is that Lahiri is drop-dead gorgeous. Wake me up when she’s not rehashing her own material or when she takes her clothes off. Either/or.

DVD:  DEATH OF A CYCLIST/THE LOVERS/THE FIRE WITHIN | Juan Antonio Bardem / Louis Malle / Criterion
Right, so there’s a stack of crap Criterion flicks that I have to sort through, so here’s the long and the short of each: 1). Death of a Cyclist is a political parable about Franco-era Spain, but it’s buried under some stilted pacing and cinematography. 2). The Lovers and The Fire Within are interesting film history documents, but are so engrossed within the tropes of Hollywood-style ’50s set pieces that they just seem dated and sluggish to modern sensibilities. Just skip all three, and wait for the next set of Criterion flicks, which all promise to be dazzling.