When we came out with our first "Judging a Book by Its Cover" a mere two months ago, we had no idea what the response would be. We were overwhelmed by the vast deluge of e-mails, cards and letters—not to mention phone calls full of heavy breathing. You made it clear: you wanted more hot cover models. So here you go, a second helping of the type of superficial book review you'll never see in the New York Times.
The Best Awful
By Carrie Fisher, $24
Chick book. It's there in the artwork: a ceramic woman, a scattering of marbles, the thud of the obvious metaphor. You know some unlucky lady—sadly, probably not Princess Leia, probably not wearing that intergalactic bikini from Return of the Jedi, the outfit that made a generation of boys stand up and exclaim, Yes, I'd be Jabba the Hutt if it
The Price of Loyalty: George W. Bush, the White House and the Education of Paul O'Neill
By Ron Suskind, $26
Total wonk book. The long subtitle that name-checks both Bush and the White House. The photo of the president sharing a casual moment with some old guy only residents of the 202 area code will recognize. The line identifying the author as a "winner of the Pulitzer Prize." The drama of the picture's half-shadow, half-sunshine lighting scheme. It all adds up to Set this aside for later, when I'm certain
Absolute Friends
By John Le Carré, $26.95
Le Carré? That sounds French! Is that French? Because we don't cotton to your kind comin' across the pond and taking jobs from American writers! Unless it's Danielle Steele, of course; you can take hers. And George Will's. In any case, this appears to be a novel about blurry people in a place of dim lighting. (Yes, definitely French.) They seem to be waiting for something, perhaps the arrival of Princess Leia in sci-fi fetish-wear.
Hollywood Animal
By Joe Eszterhas, $26.95
At first glance, this appears to be about a small, angry man glaring through a peephole. However, a second glance reveals it to be about a large, angry man glaring through a peephole. The tipoff is the name "Joe Eszterhas"—he's a big man with a big career, big ego, big appetites and big life, best remembered in this town as the screenwriter who wrote all of that nice Elizabeth Berkley nudity into Showgirls. Of course, he's also responsible for the utter inanity that surrounded the nakedness. This is his memoir, and any memoir with the words "Hollywood" and "Animal" in the title is bound to offer a lot more skin and inanity.