Martha and Lucy, the stunningly unoriginal thirtysomething heroines of Adrienne Brodeur’s wispy debut, Man Camp, spend their evenings drinking chardonnay and bemoaning the shortcomings of New York City men. ”We’ve dated momma’s boys, narcissists, chauvinists, men obsessed with their last girlfriends, men obsessed with their last girlfriend’s new boyfriend, needy guys, flirts, gropers, girly boys. . .” Lucy complains. ”Basta,” Martha replies, and they launch Man Camp, a rugged West Virginia farm where inadequate urban males can learn to milk cows, act chivalrously, and go a week without Kashi. Alas, the City Slickers shtick goes over better on the screen than the page. Here’s what women really want: novels that don’t evaporate on contact.