A Review of Marcy Dermanksy's "Hot Air"

 

In Marcy Dermansky’s engrossing novel of (mis)manners Hot Air, third person limited isn’t just a narrative technique, it’s a view of the world where solipsism holds all the cards. Her characters are self-involved, feckless, cruel, and what’s worse, two of them, couple Jonathan and Julia, are ridiculously rich. As their assistant Vivian considers it, “It was amazing how easy it was to solve problems when you did not have to worry about how much it cost.”

Of course, things can cost us more than money. A handful of pages into the tale, Jonathan and Julia, contentiously celebrating their anniversary on a hot air balloon ride, crash into Johnny’s pool, just as he and Joannie have had their first kiss on their first date. (Yes, four names that begin with J, which leads to some confusion, but also underlines how sadly similar everyone is deep down.) Joannie, the poorest of this foursome, is a divorced mom, eager to move up in the world for her and her daughter, Lucy. Although Joannie has written a semi-successful novel she has never been able to follow up on, and therefore perhaps is the closest to a stand-in for the author—who names each chapter after the character’s viewpoint we are privy to in those pages—Dermansky lets loose this zinger, “As a rule, Joanie didn’t like rich people, but she thought that could change if she were to become one.”

Care to read the rest then do so at the California Review of Books.

Review also posted at the Santa Barbara Independent on June 10, 2025.

Review of "Ladies Who Lunch: a satirical taste of L.A." by Josef Woodard

 

It’s 1990-something, and although fabulous Danielle Wiffard’s marriage is about to blow, fortunately for her (and this book’s readers), all of L.A.’s eligible bachelors, not to mention its ineligible but still very willing married men, are eager for a dalliance and maybe more. But not much more, for this is L.A., of course, and the surfaces tend to run surface deep. At least in the way they’re reflected in Josef Woodard’s biting but far from bitter debut novel Ladies Who Lunch: a satirical taste of L.A.

Care to read the rest then do so at the California Review of Books site.

Josh Hamilton Went Down to California

As he snorted the second line of blow off Minnie Mouse’s derriere, Josh Hamilton knew everyone was right. Every last one of those blog commenters. This Anaheim of Los Angeles lifestyle was going to, is going to, well, tenses just seemed confusing now. But this was something different. Cavorting with Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders was one thing – and you could marry one of them like Greinke did. Even they, America’s sweethearts since the 1970s when every cut to NFL commercial featured their pearly whites and perhaps a bit of something more, well they’d been sullied by Debbie Does Dallas. Josh just knew Arte wasn’t going to be pleased if there was a DH Does Disney (“hey batter, hey batter, hey batter – schwing!”) movie someday.

Damn, his last Rangers $24 mil contract, that barely left him enough to keep himself inked and feed the four girls, but with all that Angels’ moolah, it was impossible to control himself, particularly in the whirl that was Anaheim. Sure, behind the Orange Curtain ketchup might be a vegetable, but not for someone pulling down what Josh got. He had no idea till he got to the coast, far from the Bible Belt security and sanctity of Texas – the state, after all, leads the nation in capital punishment to cleanse its population –, that there was a Disneyland After Dark. The shock on his face riding the Matterhorn and having the hairy guy say, “Just call me the Abominable Blowman,” still hadn’t worn off. And then the Jungle Cruise, where someone in a pith helmet, or was it a dashing dude in a fedora, offered him rhino horn powder: “This’ll make you higher than hitting 35 tatters in the Home Run Derby!”

Josh didn’t think his surprise had more left in it until he spied Pujols making out with Snow White, rolling about on the fake gold doubloon strewn bed in Pirates of the Caribbean. At first he thought he should hide, but Albert beckoned him over, telling Snow, “Get your little yo-ho-ho self out of here for a sec, I need to talk to my teammate.” Turning to Josh, he said, “You wonder why I had such a bad April ‘adjusting’ last year when I signed my contact” – he even made air quotes, or tried, but his coordination seemed a bit off – “but it was this west coast lifestyle. There’s nothing like this in St. Lou-ee. Well, maybe East St. Louis, but no one would be caught dead over there. I’ve never been an ace at analogies, but it’s got to be the same for you, even with Arlington is to Dallas as Anaheim is to LA, ignoring Arlington has a bigger population. Well, so much for all that numbers talk, it only leaves nerdy statheads arguing for Trout as MVP. All I’ve got to say to you is, let’s enjoy our decline phase, if you know what I mean.”