Coyne Steven Sanders is, undeniably, _under_ the rainbow with this treatment of Ms. Judy Garland. In a good sense. First, one must respond to the treatment here of Micky Rooney, without whom we would still probably be responding to Ms. Garland in the same way. In the birth of the cliche, there is a moment when the idea itself is not a cliche but is instead an archetype. In this way cliches are to be honored as original ideas so fitting to such a large number of {events} that they become, through no fault of their own, a cliche. Sadly, this treatment of Micky Rooney in relation to Ms. Garland does not recognize the fact that Mr.Rooney was a cliche _from the beginning_. He personified the cliche by occupying one from the moment he embarked on his character--the same wide-eyed, over-eager, lifelessly hyperbolic grating dunce he dusted off every time the cameras were stupid enough to have him within their frame. If only Steven Sanders would have bitten into this none-too-tender tendril of the gas that was Micky Rooney! Instead, it is waived away like a bad odor that the reader imagined should have dissipated 5 minutes earlier. By failing to contextualize Ms. Garland within this necessary border, Coyne Steven Sanders renders a full quarter of this book into a wide pie of plums and pits; into a full line of outergarments best suited for intemperate climes. Three cheers for Coyne! Because, after all, this author is able to, in this book, show us why we should all, as I do, love Judy Garland with each breath we take. I love her. Yes. I love this book, and I love Judy Garland.