I Can't Believe it's Not Proust!

Recently read: My Lucky Star, a novel that’s part Wodehouse homage, part gay chick lit (a term I have always taken simply to mean “highly derivative of Bridget Jones Diary“), and part House of Barrymore.  It came recommended and while it was lighter than an Olsen twin’s body mass index, it was also wicked funny.  Not for the faint of heart: the unraveling involves a closeted megastar getting caught on film in flagrante delicto with a masseuse costumed as the Oscar statuette.