I had a lovely weekend, hanging out with K., R. and byrdie, and going to a 40th b-day party for a friend, where I ran into a long list of other people I used to hang out with but hardly ever see any more, and most of their small children. The reading continues. _Eats, Poops and Leaves_ made me laugh so hard I hurt. I couldn't read it out loud to R. because I'd just lose it every time. I didn't even mean to buy that book, but I had it in my hand when R. said Spurlock had a book out and I didn't put it down until I got to the register.
Spurlock's book is wonderful, and got me thinking about authorial voice. All those nearly unreadable sermons from the nineteenth century with their enormously complex sentence structure, erudite vocabulary and weird rhetorical flourishes. Then here, it's like this southern farm boy transplanted to NYC and as polemical as a young man ever gets. Incredibly informal, a fast, fast read. But in two hundred years, will it be as obscure as those volumes of sermons? Hard to say. Fun and enlightening now.
Turns out the author of _Eats, Poops. . ._ wrote something called _The Self-Destruction Handbook_ which a friend gave us at our Seattle reception last August. I pulled it off the shelf and read it. Not as funny, but really good in its own way. Amazing chapter on how to become a problem drinker.
And of course two boxes from Amazon arrived today, and I'm just wrapping up Stephanie Coontz's latest, which leaves one more from the weekend bookstore run and then there's the batch of library books I picked up today. I give up. I'm an addict. I'll just have to wait until I hit bottom (or maybe someone will do an intervention and I'll get on daytime TV?) and recognize I need a Higher Power to manage this problem.