Bar Book: Poems and Otherwise

By Julie Sheehan
W. W. Norton

Julie Sheehan’s third collection brims with a jumble of lyric verse, snippets of conversation, and wry prose reflection. The pieces take their titles from the outlandishly suggestive names of drinks: “Brandy Stinger,” for example, the opening poem, features the voice of an older woman boozily bemused by the plight of the modern (divorcing) woman: “All right one more, and that’s final. I don’t envy you/ your loose fits, your quick change.” The bartender, tracking the ebb and flow of the bar through the course of her day (sections are “Lunch Shift,” “Swing Shift,” and “Night Shift”), also tracks the course of a marriage through its grisly demise. One of the great delights of the collection is “On Pouring a Good Stout,” the book’s last piece, which should not be missed.

While the premise might strike the reader as initially cloying (“How to Make a Shirley Temple,” “Whiskey Sour,” “Jägermeister, Double Shot,” really?) I was immediately drawn in by the raw emotional timbre that sustained a lively chorus of competing voices in their shades of irony, passion, and indifference. The bartender’s increasing bitterness and vitriol is not given a solo stage, but is crowded, challenged, and occasionally ignored by a roomful of onlookers: friends, quirky patrons, husband and daughter all get to have their own say.

I am convinced, at the book’s end, that the metaphor of the bar is in fact brilliant. In the seemingly simple analogy, numerous facets of this woman’s experience are illuminated: she works, she mothers, she serves, she fights for and against a marriage. The metaphor suggests also both fuzzy intimacy of social bonding and the dangerous potential of overindulgence, the violence and vomit that spoils intimacy. Apt for teasing out a relationship gone awry.

What is perhaps most compelling about the collection—and the metaphor of the bar—is that it keenly appreciates the troubled role of traditional institutions. Marriage, the Church, Writing, as well as the ancient art of Mixing Drinks are all arenas in which the woman finds herself in a perplexing bind between loyalty and revolt. Some of the most compelling poems in the collection reflect on motherhood (“Malted Barley” juxtaposed with “Progress Report from Tiny Neglected Dears Day Care Center” is gorgeous); Shirley Temple is compared with the subversive prayer of Mary’s Magnificat, in which the privileged of the world topple; Religion is “Old Fashioned,” but the poems are both framed as, and interspersed by, prayers (the section “Prayers for the People” subverts church with realism and wit without losing affection for intercession); and the tradition of writing itself is emulated by the self-presenting poet, and subverted, as particularly in the scene in which famous poems are wrenched apart and used as ammunition in a confused and magical fight between the woman and her husband. In all these cases, the writer gracefully combines sober critique with affectionate appreciation.

The reader will cheerfully forgive some campy punning (“the mind of a bartender stays fluid”) for the delight of this biting, sophisticated, intoxicating book.

Review by Elaine James

The Last Living Slut: Born in Iran, Bred Backstage

By Roxana Shirazi
It Books

The Last Living Slut: Born in Iran, Bred Backstage, written by Iran native Roxana Shirazi, was a complete and utter waste of my time. The book was championed by writers Neil Strauss and Anthony Bozza, who met up with Shirazi one faithful day and immediately became enthralled by her tails of debauchery with bad up and coming rock ‘n’ roll bands, as well as some oldies, but not so goodies like Guns N’ Roses. Appetite for Destruction never did anything for me musically or otherwise, but apparently the mere appearance of Axl Rose was enough to give Shirazi “gushing orgasms” as a teenage girl and her sexual fantasies about him set her on her path to groupiedom.

I’m not surprised that two men would be impressed by a book in which an otherwise intelligent woman makes a fool of herself by revealing that she’s let musicians piss on her and has had sex while so wasted that she threw up on one of her many partners for the night. According to these boys, “This was a woman who was not a victim, but who made rock bands her victim—and she got off on pushing them to extremes that made them uncomfortable.” Did these guys read the book? From what I could tell, it didn’t take much coercing to convince the men to degrade her, and a person who’s completely at ease with their lifestyle isn’t prone to nervous breakdowns, depressive episodes, or the need to constantly be wasted, as was detailed by Shirazi.

It’s apparent that this book is meant to shock, but I found nothing shocking about it. Shirazi, who calls herself a feminist, defends her use of the word slut before her story begins. I don’t care about her use of slut; it’s not offensive to me in any way. What is offensive, however, is attempting to pass this book off as a heroic piece of writing by a fun and carefree young woman who happens to have a penchant for wild nights and rock stars. If anything, this book just verifies that being a groupie is a lifestyle often chosen by women with low self-esteem.

The first portion of the book details the author’s childhood in Iran where she was a “child basked in gunfire, Islamic law, and sexuality.” Raised mostly by her mother and grandmother, Shirazi was abandoned by her opium addict father, molested and raped by neighbors, and beaten by her step father. It seems to me that these are the kinds of things that shape a young woman.

Having suffered through similar circumstances, I can attest to the fact that burying the feelings that result from these occurrences only sets you up for disaster once your sexuality is blooming and your childhood has left you with the impression that men are supposed to hurt, yell, hit, and take anything they want from you—even when you say no. It seems absurd to me that Shirazi doesn’t make the connection in the book that her feelings as a child, a belief that the abuse she suffered at the hands of men was her own fault, was the most likely reason she grew up and allowed herself to be further taken advantage of, almost as if she felt like she deserved it and that it was her duty to be the thing that men used to get off.

What’s wrapped up to look like a fun package, a carefree romp in the hay, is actually a very depressing book that often reads like a bad romance novel. (“I don’t understand how Stuart found the energy and ability to fuck me so masterfully all night, nor how his testicles were able to produce such a huge amount of sperm.”) Shirazi is disparaging of other women, often only describing them in terms of their weight, makeup, clothing choices, and ability to be fucked by second rate rock stars. You get the impression that she’s the type of person who thinks calling another woman fat or ugly is the biggest insult that can be hurled.

If anything was shocking about The Last Living Slut, it was the author’s implication that the rockers she is sleeping with are fulfilling her “hunger for a free-spirited life, for breaking the rules, for laughing, for knowing the meaning of it.” If fucking teenage boys in bad bands and has-been rock stars in worse bands is the meaning of life—and the new face of feminism—I better bow out now.

Review by Tina Vasquez