Now that even Dan Brown's new book is being described in reviews as "Harry Potter for Grown Ups," can we please please please ban this phrase from ever being used in criticism ever again?

This article about the book release party for Jonathan Franzen's Freedom: You've Got to Give for What You Take is what, I imagine, Sarah Palin thinks all book release parties are like.

Minutes after the party’s outset, guests already had gathered around the bar at the landing, including Mr. Franzen himself, calm and genial in a dark gray suit and pale blue shirt, equably chatting with his girlfriend, Kathryn Chetkovich; and Mark Costello, the novelist husband of the editor in chief of Scribner, Nan Graham. Ms. Graham, in a chic cloud-blue dress, stood at the bar, talking with Deborah Treisman, the New Yorker’s elegant fiction editor . . .

I promise the Portland Bookslut Reading Series will not be like this. Except for the chic cloud-blue dress. I've been dying for an excuse to wear that.

Things I've Overheard My Roommate Say to Her On-Again/Off-Again Boyfriend or Works by Joyce Carol Oates? (Via.)

Michel Houellebecq (The Possibility of an Island) has been accused of plagiarizing from Wikipedia. Maybe. But maybe Wikipedia is plagiarizing from Michel Houellebecq. That would explain why their article on Islam just says "Ze Muslims, zey are trouble, n'est-ce pas?"

Rosecrans Baldwin, whose You Lost Me There is incredible, contributes a playlist to Largehearted Boy's Book Notes. New Yorkers: Rosecrans will have a conversation with Maud Newton at McNally Jackson Books on September 15, at 7 pm. You should go to this! I will also be having a conversation with Maud next week, but it will likely be about country music and whiskey cocktail recipes. It won't be public, but it's probably going to play out pretty much just how you'd expect.

Yesterday (my lateness due to celebrating 100 Booksluts by getting hosed at a publishing do, apologies) the Booker shortlist was unveiled. No Skippy, no Slappy, no Thousand De Zoets. According to literary director* Ion Trewin this selection "was the funniest in the history of the prize". Bet he's a big tickle at parties, old Ion.

The chosen:

Peter Carey: Parrot and Olivier in America

Emma Donoghue: Room

Tom McCarthy: C

Damon Galgut: In a Strange Room

Howard Jacobson: The Finkler Question

Andrea Levy: The Long Song

*The hell is that? Suggestions on the back of a form of legal currency to the usual address.

It turns out there is a lot of hate for The Giving Tree. (I was not aware of this.) The New York Times blog Motherlode wonders what children's books you hate. I can't say I was ever too fond of It Turns Out Curious George Is One of Those Monkeys Who Rips People's Faces Off, Shit, I Bet the Man in the Yellow Hat Didn't See That One Coming, but that might just be me.

Here's an awesome trailer for The Word Made Flesh: Literary Tattoos from Bookworms Worldwide, coming next month from Eva Talmadge and Bookslut contributor (and interview subject) Justin Taylor. (Be careful if you're planning to get a literary tattoo, by the way. Having Philip Roth's face tattooed above your genitals is not quite the sex magnet you might expect. I've, um, heard.)

So you're looking for the funniest novel of the year, are you?

Murray is at his funniest when his teeth are bared. In one scene, Ruprecht's cynical friend Dennis defends his adolescent desire for a "death ray" to kill bullies with: "Violence solves everything, you idiot, look at the history of the world. Any situation they have, they [mess] around with it for a while, then they bring in violence. That's the whole reason they have scientists, to make violence more violent."

Skippy Dies is one of the smartest, most fun novels I've read in a long time. You must check this out. Particularly if you are, like me, Irish Catholic. (OK, I'm not Irish. But thanks to The Awl, I've been listening to a hilariously NSFW Irish rap song, which has me feeling all KMRIA and shit. I mean, shite.)

OK, so: Issue 100! Once again, we're proud to bring you reviews from our intrepid and awesome writers. Check out their thoughts on the latest from Jonathan Franzen, Eliza Griswold, Gary Shteyngart, Susan Glaspell, Paul Guest, and more.

Our columnists are back! And this time...they're angry. (Not really.) In addition to our usual incredible lineup, we're proud to introduce a new regular columnist -- please check out White Chick With A Hindi Ph.D., written by the artist, scholar, and all-around badass Daisy Rockwell. Welcome, Daisy!

We are also thrilled to debut a new column/recurring feature from the authors Ben Greenman (What He's Poised to Do) and Pauls Toutonghi (Red Weather). In The Nobel Reprise, Ben and Pauls will read at least one book from each Nobel Prize in Literature winner. This installment features the introduction, and reflections by Pauls and Ben about Imre Kertész and Samuel Beckett, respectively. It's an honor to be able to run this cool project by two of America's great young fiction writers.

We're heartbroken to announce that this issue brings the final Mystery Strumpet column from longtime Bookslut contributor Clayton Moore. Clayton is a good friend of mine, and I still plan to extort him into writing for us, but he's passing on the Strumpet mantle to an as-yet-unnamed successor. (Interested? Let me know.) Clayton, man, we'll miss you, and thanks for everything.

In features this month, Jessa and I discuss the origins of Bookslut, and Jim Behrle explains the real origins of Bookslut. We've got great interviews with Rachel Shukert, Lee Rourke, Dorothea Lasky, Mary Roach, Matt Burgess, Christopher Higgs, Matthew Lippman, and Matt Stewart. And you don't want to miss the essays by Elizabeth Bachner, Barbara J. King, Rachel Rabbit White, and Josh Cook.

As always, thank you for reading!

Almost nine years ago, Jessa Crispin explained the idea for Bookslut to me via drunken scribblings on a napkin at Magnolia Cafe in South Austin, Texas. I also had an idea (also drunken, our lives kind of sucked back then) that I shared with Jessa on a napkin, one that, I thought, would change the economics of capitalism forever. That's the official story of the origin of Bookslut, anyway; there is an alternate theory.

And while the Schaub curve was widely derided as overly simplistic, Bookslut has been around for over 12,000 blog posts, over 2,700 articles, and now, 100 issues.

I'll introduce the content of our new issue soon, but for now, I want to thank all of you for supporting us over the last eight years. We've always known we have the most attractive readership of any publication ever (at least ever since that study we commissioned, which cost tens of millions of dollars and was run by an unaccredited college, but was totally worth it), but we're mostly proud of having the smartest and nicest readers in the history of journalism (sorry, Soldier of Fortune). Thanks, everyone.

Our writers all volunteer their time and energy, and we wouldn't be here without them. I haven't been this proud of a group of people since the kids I coached last summer at Camp Bookslut, our short-lived foray into...you know what? Forget I mentioned that. We'll get insurance next time. Anyway, our writers are the best literary critics you're going to find, and I love them all dearly. I also appreciate their patience with a managing editor with a sleep disorder and the short-term memory of a Christopher Nolan character. Thanks to each one of you.

And hey, Jessa, thanks for letting me help. That napkin made a lot of people happy. It changed my life. And I think you should consider selling it for a shitload of money so we can retire in Amsterdam. (I know you don't have it. Just fake one.) And thanks for being like a sister to me, especially this year, when I really, really needed one.

Jessa and I are proud to introduce the 100th issue of Bookslut.

The Hugo Awards, with contemporary literature's most uncompromisingly phallic award statue, have been announced.

This year's Best Novel was a tie between China Miéville's The City & The City and The Windup Girl by Paolo Bacigalupi. Other winners include Wireless by Charles Stross as Best Novella, and Best Novelette (which is also the name of my imaginary pug) to The Island by Peter Watts, available here. Will McIntosh's darkly funny and terrifying Bridesicle won Best Short Story, Bookslut favourite Shaun Tan won Best Professional Artist, and Best Graphic Story went to Girl Genius Volume 9.

The Guardian First Book Awards (last year's winner was the stormingly good An Elegy for Easterly by Patina Gappah) has unfurled it's 2010 longlist. The Graun has lots of treats, including extracts and Claire Armitstead's 'Red Pen Blues' on editorial shortcomings:

One could see both examples (like the laddish weakness for disquisition in fiction) as byproducts of just the sort of energy and enthusiasm one would hope for in a first book. But surely one job of an editor is to rein in such excesses?

The longlist, under the cut:

A Jim Behrle Production

Flavorwire lists the top ten bookstores in the United States. Bookslut's new home state of Oregon is represented by -- surprise! -- Powell's (and by The Strand in New York, kind of, which is co-owned by the wife of US Senator Ron Wyden [D-OR]). Note they're all indies, though in fairness, chain bookstores do always tend to dominate the list of the top ten men's room glory holes in the United States, so they'll be fine.

Speaking of silent desperation and book retailing, Borders is planning to add "Build-a-Bear" products to its stores. I went to one of those places a few months ago, when I was in San Francisco, but it turns out they were selling a different kind of bear. I guess I should have known from all the Tom of Finland art on the walls. (Thanks to Poornima for that last link.)

You know those irritating dog people, who talk about their pets like other people talk about babies, and never shut up about how cute their dogs are? Yeah, so, that's me. (Bookslut office dogs Darwin, Wallace, and Maeby all say hi, by the way.) Which is one of the reasons I loved J. R. Ackerley's sweet, funny, and heartbreaking memoir My Dog Tulip so much, and why I can't wait to see the animated film adaptation (trailer here). Even if you're a cat person, you'll love this book, and the movie looks pretty awesome, too. (This seems like as good a time as any for a public service announcement, so if you feel like donating money to stop a practice that should land people in jail for the rest of their pathetic little lives, go here.)

George Hitchcock, the artist, author, and founder of the legendary literary magazine kayak (one of the first magazines to publish Raymond Carver), is dead at 96. Hitchcock, a socialist, was perhaps most well-known for a famous comment he made while testifying before the House Un-American Activities Committee:

Hitchcock was a longtime member of the Socialist Party and didn't care who knew it. A labor organizer who once worked in a blast furnace, he was committed to social change and was ready when he was called before the committee in San Francisco in 1957. He said he was from Hood River, "where the delicious apples come from" and when asked his profession, replied "My profession is a gardener. I do underground work on plants."

The Associated Press profiles Tao Lin, thus confusing the hell out of The New York Observer.

And hey, Portlanders! Remember that Bookslut is sponsoring our first ever reading in Portland, with Tao himself, on September 28, 7 p.m., at Reading Frenzy. I need to write a long-overdue post about Reading Frenzy, which is one of the coolest places in Portland. Just walking inside feels kind of like falling in love. Anyway, if you are in Portland, please come! There will be free beer. And if that doesn't entice you, you don't belong in this city.

Someone just realized that there have been no authors on Dancing with the Stars. (Actual authors, not random famous assholes with book deals.) This show is the reason I have the worst image ever constantly in my head -- that of Tom DeLay badly playing air guitar and shaking his corrupt ass to "Wild Thing," it's here, and you've been warned) -- so I can't say I'm too excited about that idea. On the other hand, seeing Joyce Carol Oates do the cancan would fulfill one of my oldest, weirdest fantasies, so...

At The Smart Set, Rock Chalk Jessa Crispin discusses the new Radical Homemakers and The Urban Homestead. You can take the girl out of Kansas, but...

Then about 50 pages into Radical Homemakers it came screaming out, my crazy Kansas genes. Kansas breeds eccentrics, like the guy who asked that after his death his corpse be displayed in his backyard in a glass-fronted case (it is.) Or native son John Brown, whose wild-eyed portrait is lovingly painted in the Topeka capitol. Or the other guy who built massive tunnels from his house out to his fields so that he could check on his cows without stepping outside, where he might accidentally run into someone. The tunnels, by the way, were wide enough to run cows through. This is what runs in my blood. "It's the wind," my friend Ron used to say to me. "There's nothing to stop it, and it just runs straight through your brain." This is my destiny.

After Radical Homemakers stirred my crazy impulses, I decided I would need to move out onto a farm. I would raise goats and chickens and crops. I would have a massive garden. I would have a kid or two and homeschool those things. Make jam. After the kids are gone I'll start in on the tunnels.

I know the impulse. Kind of. I was born and raised in San Antonio, and sometimes I just feel the urge to listen to "Hey Baby, Que Paso" while getting high, eating breakfast tacos, and building a large shopping mall on a river by an old mission. Such is the city mouse-country mouse dynamic that makes Bookslut what it is. (Jessa, I love you, but give me Park Avenue.)