Vagablonde is a book as glittering and shiny and bright as LA itself. Well, a certain version of LA. The vapid, culturally bankrupt, superficial version. Pretty much what you’d expect from a book that starts with Kanye quote. A book about a character who worships Kanye as genius. But…maybe it’ll be a satire, I was thinking (turns out) erroneously. No, it isn’t. This is more along the lines of Brent Easton Ellis privilege in a modern day package. A not even so cautionary tale of a culture of excess. So yeah, it took some getting used to, seems like the winning formula was to just approach this as a train wreck, which is a fairly apt descriptor for the protagonist. Prue Van Teesen, as steeped in white privilege as the name suggest, a 30 year old professional appellate lawyer who dreams of a career as a rapper under the moniker Vagablonde. So far the stars haven’t lined up for her, stage fright and scarcity of connections being the main obstacles, but that’s all about to change once she meets Jax, the charismatic post sexual music producer who decided to make an album featuring her rapping. And so it begins, Prue’s ascent into her proverbial 15 minutes of fame. It won’t be done quietly, cleanly or soberly, but it will be done. Because this is a classic 3 act structured novel, you pretty much know the 15 minutes won’t last. It’s mainly just about the lead in, wild party, aftermath. You will care about the book directly in proportion to how much you will care about Prue and she is a very difficult to care about sort of person. She deliberately and systemically sabotages the only authentic and decent relationships in her life…presumably owning to primly disapproving withholding parents. She can’t seem to function without being chemically addled to some degree. She repeatedly makes terrible choices. At times she lives up to every trite blonde stereotype. There is something compelling about her, but it’s the same level of compelling as a train wreck, it’s difficult not to pay attention, because it’s such a freaking mess. Plus every so often she has these glimpses of clarity or amusingly wry observations that display a certain awareness of the ludicrousness of her plot. And at times she’s funny. That’s about it. Rapping wise, well, she was good enough for a (quickly) passing fad. She’s no Kanye (good thing that, the world doesn’t need another one of those). This probably might have been a satire, it says a lot about the culture and millennials and so on. But it seems to have opted for cheaper thrills instead. I actually can’t think of any good white female rappers, had to google that. Or male ones for that matter. And Vaga is definitely more like Wahlberg family than, say, Eminem. In quality, staying power, etc. And her funky bunch are a variety of equally chemically addled babies of privilege, technicolor bright weirdos of perfectly matched vapidity. Everyone wants to be famous, everyone wants to be an artist. That’s old news. But millennials are a generation that took it as birthright and so that’s what they do. Self actualize and take way too long to do so. Actually, this might even be vaguely autobiographical (You'll soo know all about this, because author's next book is going to be a memory, yet another obscenely generational thing...memoirizing at such young age to commemorate one's own so very special journey and one's underwhelming life experience at what...30? early 30? seriously?)). Like Vagablonde, the author is a UC Berkley educated former lawyer who lives in California. Though nowhere in her bio did it mention any rapping aspirations. Though technically both are writers. Talk, talk, talking about their generation. Though, to be fair, only one of them is subverting the traditional platform of the socially and economically oppressed to do so. No, not even going to go there. Leaving this where it belongs, somewhere in the middle of a trendy hip LA party, doing coke lines off the gold leaf toilet seat or whatever the tackier thing you can imagine. It was kinda fun while it lasted, Vagablonde, but it’s good that we’re through. Not all that glitters and all that, you know.