It's summer reading time, we're told. Apparently people who read nothing more substantial than the back of the cereal box now go to the beach with 1,000-page tomes and settle back to read while squinting and slapping bugs.
But what makes a summer book? It can't be Russian literature, since that would call for snow. It can't be something scientific. If you showed up at the beach with "A Brief History of Time," everyone would kick sand in your face. "Hey, look at the loser, improvin' his mind! Get him!"
No, it has to be a genre novel, something invariably described as a roller-coaster ride, because everyone remembers how much fun it was to read a book on a roller coaster. So let's look at some examples of summer beach reading:
Romance. I don't mean the assembly-line books like "Pec O'Glisten of Larksbreath Manor" or any of that pulpy stuff. The people who read those books are year-round consumers and go through them by the dozens.
I mean books like "Fifty-One Variations of Blue," a daring, breathtaking, passionate novel of passion that tests the boundaries of passion.
The plotline: Melissa Standin is a fashion editor living in New York who thinks she has it all until she meets the mysterious, rich, handsome Manlee X. Stanforth, and enters the strange, shadowy world of people who combine passionate lovemaking with Civil War re-enactments.
The reviews?
"Contains more euphemisms for sex than any other book on the market today." — Publishers Weekly