Have we given up on storytelling? Can every novel now just be a random collection of anecdotes about stationary, bloodless characters? No more Mark Twains? Is that the deal? I don't see how any story about the subtle sub-current of suburban angst can be anything other than boring. Even (Or is it particularly?) when the story is set in NYC. Each time I go in search of an electric new novel, something to remind me of the ambition of Roth and DeLillo, my path leads me to a whiny, half-assed next generation of writers. The particular path that led to 'Triburbia' came courtesy of the NY Times and...wow...if I can't trust them... Perhaps this is my own existential dilemma. Perhaps it can be Chapter 1 of my novel about the quotidian crises of my life in the West Village. Call it 'West Villageville'.

Written in the style of many female-centered novels, Triburbia tells the stories of a group of fathers in Tribeca. The men meet for coffee after dropping their children at school. The coffee klatch includes: a sound engineer, a sculptor, a film producer, a gangster, a playwright, and a memoirist. These men are linked by more than their geography. Their wives, their children, their careers, and their community all intersect in interesting ways. Very readable.

I liked this. The characters were believable and so New York. Even the kids were pretty well written.