Model Behavior: A Novel and 7 Stories - Hardcover

McInerney, Jay

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0679428461 ISBN 13: 9780679428466

Publisher: Alfred A. Knopf, 1998

Synopsis

With five novels over the past fourteen years, Jay McInerney has demonstrated time and again "his talent for capturing the nuances and idiosyncrasies of our culture" (San Francisco Chronicle), and nowhere is this more apparent than in Model Behavior, in which he returns to the locale of Bright Lights, Big City, Story of My Life, and Brightness Falls: the restless isle of Manhattan, where neither wishes nor even dreams ever sleep.

Connor McKnight--former acolyte of film, Zen and Japanese literature--is not unaware that these  avocations are wildly remote from his present occupation (fledgling celebrity journalist). Moreover, his longtime girlfriend, the fashion model Philomena, suddenly seems curiously remote herself--and soon enough appears to have decamped, avec diaphragm, for the other coast. Then there's the sister with whom he shared a flamboyantly addled childhood, and who now matches her brilliance for theoretical abstraction with a compassion for world suffering so acute that her own well-being is imperiled.
These and other anxieties, Connor finds, can scarcely be assuaged by his trio of flirting obsessions--a gorgeous stripper, a screenplay-in-progress in his drawer, the notion of a meaningful future--or by his principal ally and best friend, a monkishly neurotic, militantly vegetarian writer whose sanity balances precisely on the publication of his new story collection and on the fate of his Irish terrier.

So now, as Thanksgiving and Christmas bear down upon him, not to mention a female admirer who's stalking him by e-mail, Connor gropes his hapless, hilarious way toward not so much salvation as self-preservation, favoring the right things as he is relentlessly pursued by all the wrong, bad, ill-advised or plain unlucky.

Model Behavior is McInerney at full tilt--while the seven stories included trace the arc of his career and, in their exploration of the varieties of delusion, fame and experience, display anew his rare ability to comprehend and re-create the manic flux of our society.  

About this title

About the Author

Jay McInerney lives with his wife and their two children in New York and Williamson County, Tennessee.

From the Inside Flap

vels over the past fourteen years, Jay McInerney has demonstrated time and again "his talent for capturing the nuances and idiosyncrasies of our culture" (San Francisco Chronicle), and nowhere is this more apparent than in <i>Model Behavior,</i> in which he returns to the locale of Bright Lights, Big City, Story of My Life, and Brightness Falls: the restless isle of Manhattan, where neither wishes nor even dreams ever sleep.<br><br>Connor McKnight--former acolyte of film, Zen and Japanese literature--is not unaware that these avocations are wildly remote from his present occupation (fledgling celebrity journalist). Moreover, his longtime girlfriend, the fashion model Philomena, suddenly seems curiously remote herself--and soon enough appears to have decamped, avec diaphragm, for the other coast. Then there's the sister with whom he shared a flamboyantly addled childhood, and who now matches her brilliance for theoretical abstraction with a compassion for world sufferin

Reviews

The protagonists of these witty stories tend to be outsiders, never quite at home in their seemingly glamorous milieus: a young New York movie reviewer who hopes to sell screenplays in Hollywood; a famous actor who visits his wife at a mental institution; an aspiring writer who becomes a crackhead and lives among Manhattan's transvestite hookers. Connor McKnight, the hero of the first-person novel from which the collection takes its title, is no exception to this rule. He abandons his study of Zen and Japanese literature to write for a celebrity magazine in Manhattan and live with a model. At the same time, his best friend, Jeremy Green, a brooding, self-consciously Jewish short-story writer, becomes an unwilling socialite and fears jeopardizing his artistic reputation. Always scrupulous in demonstrating the comparative in-ness of his out-crowd, McInerney impresses here with his trenchant humor and keen eye for detail, as he vengefully skewers the New York literary scene and other, equally unforgiving cliques. (In a typical exchange, Jeremy asks whether Christopher Lehmann-Haupt is Jewish, then complains, "What's-her-fucking-name hates everybody except Anne fucking Tyler and Amy fucking Tan. I don't stand a chance. Wrong initials, wrong sex.") Although the novel ends abruptly and the seven stories, which span McInerny's career, seem tacked on, there is no question but that the aging 1980s wunderkind follows the scene of his early glory (Bright Lights, Big City) with a more savage, jaundiced eye. Say what you will, McInerny has few peers in chronicling a certain segment of contemporary society that he loves and hates at the same time.
Copyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc.

McInerney went for breadth in the ambitious The Last of the Savages (1996) with mixed results, and now, in a concise novel accompanied by seven short stories, he returns to his forte: tightly constructed and viciously funny satires of the high life of New York and Hollywood. The novel, Model Behavior, is a mosaic of short takes recording the muddled life of Connor McKnight, a writer with literary longings reduced to pounding out celebrity fluff for a fashion magazine. Tainted by the miasma of insincerity that permeates his glib world, Connor hasn't been paying attention to his relationship with his model girlfriend, Philomena, who seems to be landing an inordinate number of out-of-town assignments. As it slowly dawns on him that something is seriously awry, his behavior slips from vaguely objectionable to all-out alarming, a slide echoed by the crazed actions of his best friend, a golden-maned, immensely gifted, and habitually outraged writer who subjects strangers to high-volume tirades and can't stop harassing the people who adopted his dog. As McInerney puts his confused heroes through their paces, he slashes away at the absurdities of the publishing, fashion, and movie worlds with consummate skill. This brisk, thoroughly entertaining novel is followed by a set of impeccable short stories that extends McInerney's illumination of the ever confounding gap between image and reality. What makes McInerney so likable is the ingenuousness behind his cynicism. Even as he so wittily mocks the absurdity of the glamour industry, he is still enamored of the dreams it sells. Donna Seaman

McInerney's sixth novel and accompanying seven short stories are sheer delights. Common motifs include smart young men with lots to learn, especially in matters of the heart; fast and hard living, whether in obscurity or celebrity; and painful personal betrayals. After detouring to larger themes and time spans with The Last of the Savages (LJ 4/15/96), the author returns to New York, popular culture, and characters aptly described as "glib depressives on parade." The novel details a tumultuous year in the life of its narrator, Connor McKnight, a thirtysomething celebrity magazine writer. Philomena, his model girlfriend, leaves him to live with the actor he has been trying to interview; his best friend, Jeremy, dies?but not before revealing that he and Philomena indulged in a major flirtation; Connor is arrested for head-butting the actor; and his sister Brooke, a sad anorexic, is sliced with a boxcutter by a stalker-fan of Connor. Though seemingly calamitous, all is done with deft humor. Highly recommended.
-?Sheila M. Riley, Smithsonian Inst. Libs., Washington, DC
Copyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

MODEL COUPLE

When Philomena looks in the mirror she sees a creature fat and unattractive. This despite the fact that she is a woman whose photographic image is expensively employed to arouse desire in conjunction with certain consumer goods. Or rather, because of that fact. Toxic body consciousness being the black lung of her profession. Dressing for the party, she screams that she's bloated and has nothing to wear.
I'm clutching a preparty martini when she makes this declaration. "You look terrific," I say.
She seizes my glass and hurls it at the mirror, shattering both.
It's all right, really. I drink too much anyway.

THE PARTY

The name of the party is the Party You Have Been to Six Hundred Times Already. Everybody is here. "All your friends," Philomena states in what can only be described as a citric tone. It seems to me that they are her friends, that she is the reason we grace this fabulous gala, which takes place in the Waiting Room of Grand Central, presumably evicting dozens of homeless people for the night. We're supposedly on hand for the benefit of a disease, but we were comped, as was everyone else we know. "I'm sick of all this pointless glamour," my glamorous girlfriend says. "I want the simple life." This has become a theme. Weariness with metropolitan life in all its colonoscopic intricacy. I wonder if this ennui is somehow related to that other unstated domestic theme: sex, infrequency thereof.
We are accosted by Belinda, the popular transvestite, whom I am nearly certain is a friend of my girlfriend's, as opposed to one of my very own. I can't exactly remember if I know him from the gossip columns or if I know him personally, from events like these. Belinda is with an actual, ageless woman with striking dark eyebrows and buzzcut white hair, a woman who is always here at the party and whom I always sort of recognize. One of those women with three names: Hi Howareyou Goodtoseeyou. All the women lately have either three names or just one. Even the impersonators.
"Oh God, hide me," says the woman whose name I always forget, "there's Tommy Kroger, I had a bad date with him about five thousand years ago."
"Did you sleep with him?" Philomena asks, raising one of her perfectly defined eyebrows, which looks like a crow in flight in the far distance of a painting by van Gogh.
"God, who can remember?"
"If you can't, then you did," says Belinda. "That's the rule."
Ah, so that's the rule.
"Hello, darlings." Who could it be but Delia McFaggen, the famous designer, streaking toward Belinda, blowing kisses all over everyone. I retreat, slaloming through the thick crowd to find beverages, the first of many trips.

A FRIENDLY FACE

At the bar I encounter Jeremy Green, an unlikely and conspicuous figure at this venue, his golden locks falling superabundantly across the square shoulders of his rented tux--which juxtaposition suggests a flock of begowned angels camped atop the Seagram Building. He is an actual friend, my best friend, in fact, though he ignores my repeated greetings. Not until I pour vodka on his shirt does he deign to acknowledge my existence.
"Fuck off."
"Excuse me. Aren't you Jeremy Green, the famous short story writer?"
"That's an oxymoron. Same category as living poet, French rock star, German cuisine."
"How about Chekhov?"
"Dead." Jeremy pronounces this verdict with a poète maudit manner that seems tinged more than faintly with envy. He doesn't quite add Lucky bastard, but you can see that's what he's thinking.
"Carver?"
"Ditto. Plus, you think the guy who read his gas meter knew who Carver was? You think this bartender knows?"
The bartender, an aspiring model, says "Shortcuts" in midpour. "I saw the movie."
"I think," Jeremy says, "that proves my point. And don't even think about saying Hemingway."
"Wouldn't dream of it. Any particular reason you're ignoring me?"
"I just think I'll feel better about myself if I pretend I don't know anybody at this hideous ratfuck." Finally he turns his wrathful gaze upon me. "Besides, if memory serves, you're the slimy lowlife who talked me into attending this fetid fete."
"Your editor talked you into it," I remind him. "I merely encouraged you by way of saying that I, personally, would be happier and less chagrined if you were among the throng."
Why, I wonder, are all the boys and girls blaming me tonight? Jeremy has a book coming out, and his editor, Blaine Forrestal, thought it would be good for him to be seen. Blaine is part of this world. She wears terrific suits, has a Radcliffe degree and a house in Sag Harbor; Jeremy is the least commercial of the writers she publishes. In fact, one might surmise that she is publishing Jeremy as a kind of penance for the frothy, wildly successful stuff she generally dispenses--memoirs by disgraced politicians, autobiographies by Emmy-winning TV stars. Jeremy's stories tend to appear in Antaeus and the Iowa Review and frequently are set in mental institutions.
"I feel," he says, "like a whore."
"Now you know how the rest of us feel."
"I'm sure this will really boost my lit cred, showing all the media elite that I swim in the same sewer they do."
"Don't worry, I think the media elite's swimming in some other sewer tonight." Indeed, excepting a few young black-clad Voguettes and self, I don't see much in the way of the Fourth Estate.
"Who's that fucking midget over there who told me he 'rather liked' my first book."
Following Jeremy's aquiline nose, I spot Kevin Shipley, book assassin for Beau Monde, in conversation with the New York Post.
"Jesus, I hope you didn't insult him. That's Kevin Shipley."
"He told me he bought it on the remainder table at Barnes and Noble and I said I was deeply honored that he felt he'd gotten his buck ninety-five's worth."
"Just pray he doesn't review the new one. His keyboard's made out of human teeth."
"Yeah, but how does he reach it?"
Finally I have reached the bar, where I request several cosmopolitans, one of which I hand to Jeremy. "Your problem," I say, "is that you don't drink enough. Where's Blaine, anyway?"
"Last I knew she was kissing Hollywood butt. Some fucking troll from Sony Pictures."
"Let's go find Phil," I suggest. "Maybe you can cheer her up."

WHAT'S WITH PHILOMENA?

The love of my life has been decidedly edgy and nervous. I would ask her why, except I'm not entirely certain I want to know. What we need is some ecstasy therapy, drop a few tabs, have a long night of truth and touch. There has been too little rapture of late. Not to mention the touching part.
Fortunately, by the time I find her again, she seems to have undergone a mood transplant. Delighted to see Jeremy, she kisses him and then, for good measure, me.
I introduce myself to the attractive young woman of color with whom Phil has been conversing, whose name sounds familiar.
"Do I know you?" I ask.
"We've never met," she says. "I'm Chip Ralston's personal assistant."
"Well," says Jeremy, "bully for you."
"I was just telling Cherie," Phil tells me, "that you're doing the profile for CiaoBella!"
A photographer suddenly appears: "Philomena, let's get a shot."
My statuesque soulmate breaks into autosmile and gamely reaches for my arm, but, shy guy that I am, I say, "Do a shot with Jeremy, we're trying to get him noticed." Shoving them together, I chase after the retreating personal assistant.
"Is Chip here," I ask.
"You just missed him," she says. "He's flying back to L.A. tonight, but I gave him your message. I'm sure he'll check in with you next week."
I'd press her harder, I've got to talk to the bastard, but soon, then I suddenly see that she's edging directly into the path of Jillian Crowe, my formidably glamorous boss; and while I admire Jillian's fashion sense and editorial skills, I'd just as soon avoid her at present. Backtracking, I find Philomena teasing Jeremy about the career that awaits him in modeling. She is more vivacious than I've seen her in days, Jeremy being such a Jeremiah that he tends to spur his companions to sparkle and shine.
Fueled by several uncharacteristic cocktails, Philomena's high spirits last well into the morning; she surprises me by agreeing to join an expedition of fashion folk down to the Baby Doll Lounge, a low strip joint in TriBeCa.
Cabbing down with three revelers--satellites of Planet Fashion--she sits on my lap and sips from a drink she managed to smuggle out of the party. "I have a joke," she suddenly announces.

TOPLESS MODEL IN HEADLESS BAR

At the Baby Doll, Philomena orders another cosmopolitan and, not unkindly, critiques the bodies of the dancing girls. With the body God gave Phil, she can afford to be generous. Finally the guy named Ralph, whom Philomena introduced as "genius with hair," suggests that Philomena show us her tits. The cry is taken up by Alonzo--who introduced himself as "a powder fairy," which Philomena annotated as "makeup guy"--and then by the adjoining tables. To my astonishment, she jumps on the bar and pulls her dress down to her waist, giving us a liberal flash of lunar breast. And it is a measure of their excellence of form that I nearly swoon--if indeed one can nearly swoon--despite having seen them nearly every day for the past three years of my life. Tumid with desire, I try to coax Philomena home the minute she jumps down from the bar. But she's...

Edition details

• Publisher: Alfred A. Knopf
• Publication date: 1998
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0679428461
• ISBN 13: 9780679428466
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 275