James Frey-the whining, lying-ass, horrible writer who was probably never seriously addicted to anything in his whole sad, pampered, no-talent life-may have duped The New York Times into giving his new novel a drooling rave. But he received much saner treatment from David L. Ulin at The Los Angeles Times. "'Bright Shiny Morning' is a terrible book. One of the worst I've ever read [...] Two and a half years after he was eviscerated by Oprah Winfrey for exaggerating many of the incidents in his now-discredited memoir 'A Million Little Pieces,' he's back with this book, which aims to be the big novel about Los Angeles, a panoramic look at the city that seeks to tell us who we are and how we live."

Web 2.0 was hot last night. And I mean the kind of heat determined not by Technorati rank, but by the thermometer. Despite the stifling weather, San Francisco's Web stars turned out for a party Sarah Lacy threw for her new book, Once You're Lucky, Twice You're Good at Otis off Union Square. The hole-in-the-wall, two-story bar couldn't handle the crowd, which spilled out on Maiden Lane. Slide CEO Max Levchin, the star of the book, stopped by with fiancé Nellie Minkova to congratulate Lacy, and then immediately left. Runner-up Jay Adelson, whom Levchin beat on page count, stayed longer, as did Twitter's Ev Williams, who came with his wife, Sara Morishige. Also in the crowd: August Capital VC David Hornik, who didn't even rate a mention in the index, despite inviting Lacy to his exclusive Lobby conference. A gallery of photos, after the jump:

The Ice Storm author and Dale Peck nemesis says, "After 9/11, I really wanted to deal with the culture as a whole instead of just navel-gazing." Moody calls his 1992 book Garden State (no relation to the Natalie Portman/Zach Braff film) "a truly dreadful book but it's emotionally accessible and vulnerable and I admire that." Re: drinking? He's recovered now: "There wasn't some halcyon period where I could have one or two drinks and be witty at a party. I'd have six or eight more and try to f—- other people's girlfriends." [Sydney Morning Herald]

Obviously the forthcoming book Hollywood Babylon: It's Back is going to be the must-have ironic hipster book of the season, what with its collection of full-frontal shots of male celebrities like, allegedly, Mick Jagger, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Ewan McGregor and, terrifyingly, John Malkovich. But in case you can't afford, or bring yourself, to buy the cock gawker for your coffee table, here are the Cliff's Notes:

Sarah Lacy's book about Web 2.0, Once You're Lucky, Twice You're Good, officially comes out today (and there's a book party at Otis on Maiden Lane in San Francisco this evening). We've run the index, in an homage to Web 1.0 memoir Burn Rate, page by page over the past week. Here's the full set:

Is Hollywood PR practice infecting New York's lofty cultural industry? Two young stars together are always bigger than two separate entities. "Hot young New York authors Sloane Crosley and Keith Gessen," as the press release says, will do a joint reading next Wednesday in Brooklyn. Ooh! The n+1 editor (Gessen), and the popular twentysomething book publicist (Crosley) both have new books to promote—Gessen has already jokingly (we think) admitted in his NYT Styles profile to keeping a watchful eye on Crosley's sales, which are beating his. It's better this way: if readers get annoyed by Gessen's overblown male characters—at least they'll have her quirky essays to lighten the mood. [BookCourt]

The James Frey Super Badass Killer book tour hit the Blender Theater this week, and the sleepy burg called New York is still reeling from the overpowering awesomeness. This tour, you'll recall, is not just some punk ass reading at Borders; no, it's a heavy metal-blasting punch of literary skill right in the face. Fiction writer Frey "walked through his adoring fans flanked by two huge body-builders," then read while hardcore Terry Richardson photos of guns flashed on a screen behind him. Someone asked Frey about writer's block. "Writer's block is for chumps," he replied. Step back, abstract psychological concept! At least Frey is bringing some energy to his book tour, as terrible as they usually are. But where was all that overpowering machismo when he was taping this Barnes & Noble promo earlier this week?:

With the Internet, is anybody able to get writing done these days? You open that Word doc titled "my first book" but get distracted by a maddeningly ambiguous email from a friend, which quickly segues into a flurry of Facebook-stalking. Fancy literary magazine Granta asks some "highly effective" literary people how they discipline themselves. Journalist John Kampfner stays away from blogs, for instance, wondering "why people might be interested in the instant rantings or musings of a hack who hasn't left his armchair."

This week, everybody's wondering why boys (yes, they call them boys) can't write anymore! In the Observer, Choire Sicha argues that with the current crop of women writers looming over them—Janet Malcolm, Ursula Le Guin, Didion, Dunn—dude writers simply can't concentrate, much less perform. " A little penis, it turns out, can be a dangerous thing," he writes. "But it's not crazy at all to feel bad for the young male writers of our time, despite all they have done to us with their books." Or what they haven't done to us with them! Debut novelist and n+1 editor Keith Gessen's photo, tragically, illustrates this article. And now Emily Gould chimes in on Galleycat. (Disclosure? "Whatever. Google me.")

Hiding in Hip Hop, entertainment industry vet Terrance Dean's coy tell-all book about the gay secrets of famous people in the music world and Hollywood at large, has not exhausted all of its blind items. Not by a long shot. And I was forced to read (a large portion of) this book, so I plan to bring these gay celebrity blind items to you, the curious masses. Today: the lesbians! And at least one is very obvious:

Doesn't anyone feel just the teensiest bit sorry for James Frey? Personal feelings about his writing and the fact that he interviews like Forrest Gump aside, during the current media blitz surrounding Bright Shiny Morning (the one he told Vanity Fair he wouldn't be doing!), the dude is practically hog-tied at every opportunity and forced to talk about his past sins. The constant rehashing makes for a really boring interview. How many times must a man be forced to apologize? Was F. Scott Fitzgerald right? Are there truly no second acts in American lives?

Just when you thought you had heard every dumb idea the world had to offer! Book publisher HarperCollins UK will soon launch their new social-networking-ish website, called Authonomy, where eager lil' beavers can upload their work and show it to people. (Every old organization, from the NYT to Forbes, has seen fit to start a social network these days.) Your work is reviewed by the other yokels on the site, but as the publisher says, "Readers will be able to support their favourite manuscripts, with HC guaranteeing to consider the most popular for publication." Explains the Guardian:

"Though The Wolfman will have a first print run of 9,000 copies, Tor Books has already had a number of inquiries from film and television producers about adapting the novel. Among those praising the book are two of Mr. Pekearo's literary heroes: Andrew Vachss, who calls the book a 'brilliant, insightful, overpowering debut,' and Joe R. Lansdale, who says the novel gives the werewolf motif 'a fresh coat of fur and new sheen on its very sharp teeth.'" [Times]

Outspoken novelist Doris Lessing, 88, never cared much about winning the 2007 Nobel Prize in Literature: "Oh Christ, I couldn't care less," she said at the time. Now, she adds in a radio interview, winning the prestigious award has totally messed up her life and creative energy: "It has stopped; I don't have any energy anymore. This is why I keep telling anyone younger than me, don't imagine you'll have it forever. Use it while you've got it, because it'll go; it's sliding away like water down a plug hole." [NYT] Oh, shit.

Yesterday, I finally received my advance copy of Hiding in Hip Hop, former closeted entertainment industry gadfly (pictured) Terrance Dean's much-hyped autobiography about all of the gays that are, well, hiding in hip hop. I've read about half of it so far. Dean has already proven himself eager to trot out blind items about male celebrities he says he's hooked up with, and the book doesn't disappoint in that regard. Today, an overview of what the book is and isn't, and then some of what you've been waiting for: three TV actors, a famous rapper, and a "megastar," anonymously outed.

We haven't read it yet (somebody please send!), but the NYT has totally fallen in love with reformed lying-memoirst James Frey's Bright Shiny Morning, set in Los Angeles. Times critic Janet Maslin writes, "His publisher called it a dazzling tour de force. (Look, somebody had to, if only to create a comeback drama)... But that wasn't so far off the mark..." It's the "captivating urban kaleidoscope that, most recently, Charles Bock's 'Beautiful Children' was supposed to be." And what else?

Fight Club author Chuck Palahniuk, coiner of the term "suicide girls" and writer of stark raving mad fiction (people have fainted during his readings), has a new book, Snuff. As it the trend right now, he also has a book trailer. As Fleshbot pointed out, it's a porn parody, as the book concerns a gangbang. Is it SFW? Sort of... there' no nudity, but your boss will assume you're watching bad 70s porn. (Here's the test of a good book trailer: after watching it, are you able to figure out what the hell the book is about? Well...)

Sometimes, the future is right in front of your face. Three years ago, there was a different n+1 (the most important literary journal of our time) dude publishing a much-vaunted, yet sorely disappointing first novel featuring immature young men fumbling their way with tragically smart women who are only with them due to the startling lack of suitable males in New York. It was Benjamin Kunkel's Indecision. This weekend, a reader snapped a photo of it at Barnes and Noble in Hyannis, Massachusetts, on fire-sale at the "Under $5" table... next to Michael Crichton. (Click to enlarge.)

He made his fortune — about $18 billion worth — "fundamentally altering the course of human existence." His patron saints are Microsoft cofounder Paul Allen and Apple cofounder Steve Jobs. And like his fellow geek, "the Nerdling," he's featured in Christopher Tennant's Official Filthy Rich Handbook, deliverable in June. An excerpt, below.