Eat My Cookies

No, seriously. Eat them.

Why? Because you can. Because I can. Because there are actually cookies out there with my name on them. Literally.















It seems a cookie company in Italy, Mulino Bianco, actually has a cookie with my last name. Over the years, I've tried finding out exactly what my name means in Italian. I've heard that it means everything from "beautiful eyes" to a type of currency, like an American quarter (I actually have seen pictures of them so I know at least this one is true). So while I don't know it's exact translation, I do know it's worthy of a cookie. And a damn fine one at that.

While I travelled with my family through Rome, Florence, Venice, Lucca and Pesca in the summer of '97 we came across these cookies and, of course, snatched up as many as possible. When my brother came back from a recent trip, he had a bag for each of us.

The other night I awkwardly ripped the bag open (apparently the same companies that wrap American CD's and DVD's also package Italian cookies, those fuckers) and bit into the chocolate cookies sandwiching a layer of vanilla cream. They apparently also come with a hazelnut filling or a vanilla cookie/chocolate center combo. The one my brother brought back are like Oreos except smaller (of course, because the American version has to be bigger). You know what? For a packaged cookie that made its away across the world? Pretty damn good. A buttery chocolate cookie and soft creamy center - yeah, I'm a fan.

Apparently, this guy loves 'em too (scroll down for his orgasmic rave), as does this lady (again, scroll down), who I think puts them in her Top Five cookies of all time but since I don't speak Italian she could also be saying she has cheese in her pants. What do I know?

Also, could I just point out that every other cookie in the Mulino Bianco line has a a beautifully clean, smooth product shot while the Baiocchi cookies are almost always bulging, frumpy bags? (See above right) What's up with that? Are my cookies not worthy of a touch-up, a stylist, even a food "fluffer," if you will? Seriously, Mulino Bianco, get it together. I may just be a blogger on the other side of the world, but these cookies have my name on them. I don't care if Baiocchi translates into "bulging, frumpy cookie package" (I pray that it doesn't), my cookies better look damn good.

Bratz, Skankz, and Hoz

Kids are skanks. And the parents aren't much better.

New Roundable member Prego at Rust Belt Ramblings has become a one-man fashion police squad, and he's not happy with what he sees. Remember the good ol' days when people dressed up to go on a plane? (Yeah, me neither, but I keep hearing about them. Maybe that was back when people could afford gas and Ryan Seacrest was straight. You know, back in fictional times.) Now pajamas (or pygamas, according to Prego) are not just common, they're practically replacing jeans as everyday wear. And don't get him started on boxers visible above jeans. (Seriously, is male butt cleavage the new version of female cleavage? Because, in the words of Valerie Cherish, I don't want to see that!)

So slip off the pajama bottoms for something more comfortable, grab a highball and leave your two cents at Rust Belt Ramblings...

How an Author Got Lazy, Got Caught and (Maybe) Got Away WIth It

There are so many things wrong with this story I don't know where to start. Kaavya Viswanathan, a 19-year-old sophomore at Harvard, is being accused of plagiarizing another novelist's work for her own brand new novel, How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life.

Apparently, there are 29 passages that almost exactly match passages found in Megan F. McCafferty's 2001 novel Sloppy Firsts and 2003 novel Second Helpings. The Harvard Crimson has examples here. An investigation by both authors' publishing companies has begun (they were tipped off by an anonymous fan of McCafferty).

Viswanathan admits to having been a big fan of those books in high school, yet has the nerve to dismiss any similarities between the books as "unintentional and unconscious." She then goes on to explain, "I wasn't aware of how much I may have internalized Ms. McCafferty's words."

According to a New York Times profile, Viswanathan had completed a large novel about Irish history while still in high school. Her parents hired her a specialist in college applications, and when the specialist read Viswanathan's work, she was so impressed she passed it on to the William Morris Agency. The Agency lead to an agent which lead to a book packaging company which lead to her publisher, Little, Brown. By the time she was 17 she had a two-novel deal for $500,000 based on four chapters of the novel and an outline. A movie based on Opal Mehta is already in the works.

It seems some people have theorized that this is the result of "cryptomnesia," where one's brain incorrectly attributes rememberd information to the wrong source. I understand this idea (I occassionally attribute a previous conversation to the wrong friend) but it seems like a stretch to apply it here.

Even if she's talented, smart and hard-working enough to get into Harvard, that doesn't mean her writing talent is worth half a million dollars. I don't know everything about the publishing industry, but half a million dollars for only two books by an inexperienced teenager does not make any sense to me. Even before these plagiarism allegations came out, this deal made no sense.

Everyone is "inspired" or "influenced" by other artist's work. But to say any similarities (and these go beyond similarities, these sentences are word-for-word copies) are "unintentional and unconscious" isn't going to fool anyone. Cryptomnesa? 29 times (and that number seems to be growing)? I don't think so. Luckily, McCafferty's publishers at Crown, a division of Random House, described it more accurately as "literary identity theft."

Oh, and apparently future editions are going to have the "similarities" taken out or edited. Plus, Harvard doesn't seem to care as this is concerning "non-academic work". So let me get this straight: Viswanathan doesn't suffer any consequences at school, the book will still be published (and now with a lot more publicity that is helping her - and McCafferty's - sales), she's still pocketing the half a mil (unless she gets sued and loses) and the movie is, at this point, still being made. While it's too early to tell what the outcome of this situation will be, it seems like she'll do pretty well no matter what.

(On somewhat of a side note, I understand that a college sophomore with a huge book deal makes for an interesting profile, but I hope this will encourage the NY Times, with its national audeince, to broaden its scope. The incestuous, insular nature of New York and Ivy League schools (both with each other and in their own circles) is just plain annoying. There are plenty of young, talented writers with book deals in this country who actually write their own material that are worthy of the coverage, publicity and hype Ms. Viswanathan received. Rea Frey of Columbia College, my alma mater, wrote a well-received book while graduating as the valedictorian - where's her profile?)

My Love Is More Like Vodka

I'm trying to think of a love song that I like. I know it's cool right now to like some love songs in an ironic way, pumping your fist in the air and shouting "Yes!" when something by Journey plays on the bar jukebox (could that trend please run its course by the way? Journey, like most things, was much cooler - or, at least, a notch above hellacious - when everyone wasn't shoving down your throat how post-ironically "cool" they are now). But I can't even think of a single, straightforward, sentimental love song - one without a minor chord progression or melancholy lyric - that I really enjoy.

So, although I didn't know what to expect, I wasn't optimistic about reading Mitch Albom's The Five People You Meet in Heaven. I had heard from various sources that he was sappy and sentimental, two characteristics I don't normally respond to, whether in music or literature, without cringing.

Granted, many of these opinions were voiced by fellow fiction writing majors at Columbia College, where it was normal to despise any popular literature, even if you hadn't read it. So I was surprised when, halfway through his novel, I was thoroughly enjoying Albom's story.

It doesn't give anything away to say the five people you meet in heaven are actually the five people Eddie, our protagonist, meets in heaven. Albom starts at the end of Eddie's life and works both forward and backwards. He explores what happens to Eddie after he passes away in a freak amusement park accident and flashes back to various stages in Eddie's life, beginning with his birth and using subsequent birthdays along the way to anchor the pivotal moments in his life.

Of course, the five people - each of whom had influenced Eddie's life while they were alive - all have something to teach Eddie. A cynic might find these lessons cloying or even preachy, but you know what? I bought it. I fully believed that these people would exist in real life and that their lessons, while maybe not completely original, are worthwhile.

While Eddie could just have been the cantakerous old man stereotype, Albom layers him with shades of vulnerability, naivete, joy, pain and pride. Even the coldest cynic would appreciate the sweet highs and stifling lows of Eddie's life-long romance with his wife, Marguerite.

I once heard a psychiatrist explain that a troubled, unsatisfying relationship between a man and his father is part of the "male psyche." That is, it's a given that all men, regardless of race or class, have to deal with. Albom carefully explores both sides of the rocky relationship between Eddie and his father, revealing the bitterness, petty grudges and mutual failed expectations that so often form the unspoken pain men carry against their fathers or sons for decades.

My opinion might be biased since I could relate so easily to Eddie's problems, from his resentful attitude towards his father to his inner regrets about life choices. Maybe I overestimated Albom's story-telling finesse? I don't think that's the case due to my eye-rolling after reading this:

"Love, like rain, can nourish from above, drenching couples with a soaking joy. Bur sometimes, under the angry heat of life, love dries on the surface and must nourish from below, tending to its roots, keeping itself alive."

Excuse me? Love is like rain? Did he really write that? And, okay, if he came up with something like that on his first draft, then fine, but to keep it in the final copy? This is worse than high school poetry.

In the next paragraph, just in case I didn't quite get the picture, Albom describes tension between Eddie and his wife by explaining that "the water of their love was hidden beneath the roots."

If anyone ever told me that the water of my love was hidden beneath my roots I would punch him in the face. Next thing I know, he's going to tell me to water my spiritual garden so the rainbow of my soul can shine on the dew-drop that is life.

There's more of that, too, by the way; I just don't have the heart to force any more of it onto you. This is the problem that I have, both with sentimental literature and sentimental love songs: if the feelings they're addressing are so precious, fleeting and unique as to justify a whole book or song, then any little inauthentic detail punctures my focus and before I know it, I'm on the floor laughing.

Luckily, I took a few deep breaths and opened up the book again. Despite some lazy writing, there is a well-earned sweetness to Albom's story, a compliment I don't normally dole out. While beginning in the present day, Albom's tale feels both old-fashioned and timeless. This is a book you pass down to your children.

Unless they like Journey. Then you're too late.

Ew

While this may be a blog covering the pop culture landscape, I put a lot of effort into avoiding celebrity gossip drivel. There's already so much of it out there and, even though it's a fun distraction on occassion and I enjoy reading other blogs about it, I have so far successfully prohibited the mass guilty pleasure that is US Weekly from smearing it's glossy, botoxed feces across my blog.

That is, until now. Joe Wack, one of our newer Roundtablers, is venting his frustration with a certain celebrity over at Hairshirt. I don't even want to mention his name due to his massive overexposure; I'll just say he's gotten a little loony of late and has decided to pay a certain B-level starlet to incubate his own horse-toothed mini-me.

The only redeeming factor in Joe's choice to give this insulated schmuck more attention, besides that it's hilarious, is his use of the word "smugly": smug + ugly. Perfection!

So grab a drink, clear out any negative energy from your body, and join the discussion at Hairshirt.

(P.S. Doesn't "Ew" look weird alone up there in the title? Isolating it reduces it to gibberish. It's like when you say a word, maybe "member" or something, over and over until it loses all meaning. Ew. <--- See? There it looks fine. On its own as a title? Just lines on a screen.)

Literary Gold!

(Blogger update: This piece was chosen by the editors of Blogcritics as a Pick of the Week April 26-May 2. I'm flattered!)

Some artists creates something that is actually a direct response to another artist's work - think how Liz Phair's Exile in Guyville was a song-by-song reply to the Rolling Stones' Exile on Main Street. Similar occurrences have been happening recently on the literary scene. That is, instead of coming up with a completely original premise (if that even exists anymore), an author writers a book, usually non-fiction, as a response to another author's book. Typically, the book provoking a reaction is a best-seller. Because why take the time to craft an entire book as a response to another book no one read in the first place?

Some examples include:


Think: Why Crucial Decisions Can’t Be Made in the Blink of an Eye by Michael R. LeGault. This directly addresses Malcolm Gladwell's best-seller Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking. Think's cover blatanly echoes Blink's spare, clinical design. Even the subtitle seems to be an unsubtle bitch-slap to Blink's premise. The whole approach feels counter-productive: wouldn't you have to read Gladwell's book first so you know with what LeGault was disagreeing? Way to go LeGault - your book is not selling nearly as well as Gladwell's and you're actually promoting his book with your own. So could you write a book explaining why my blog is bad for people? That would sure help me out a lot.


Be Honest - You're Not That Into Him Either by Ian Kirner. I like the title of this response to the hugely popular He's Just Not That Into You by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo. I always thought the "He's just not that into you" catchphrase from Sex and the City (where Behrendt was a story editor) was a touch snarky. Instead of wasting your time trying to "understand guys" (an ineffective, almost offensive generalization that's up there with figuring out "what women want"), Kirner focuses on what the female reader wants for herself, a goal much more attainable and desirable.


Japanese Women Don’t Get Old or Fat by Naomi Moriyama and William Doyle. It seems Mireille Guiliano's French Women Don’t Get Fat was either so popular or so provocative (or both) that it spawned two bandwagon-jumpers. The second is Mediterranean Women Stay Slim, Too by Melissa Kelly and Eve Adamson. The point of all these books is basically: American women, you're all fatties. Apparently, every non-American woman is holding the key to eating healthy in her size 2 jeans. The answer seems pretty obvious, ladies: move...to another section of the bookstore before you cry or hit someone.

I've been searching for that book inside me, the one that only I could write. Maybe I should take a hint from these books (even if they don't sell a fraction of their source material) and write my own reaction book...

Donny & Donnie & Donny. That's right, Julie Powell. You may have used your year-long pseudo-apprenticeship with Julia Child as the basis of your book Julie & Julia, but I'm going to bask in the mentoring glow of not one but two famous Donnie/y's: Donnie Whalberg and Donny Osmond. (Unlike Julia Child, they may not be technically "dead," but they are definitely not famous anymore - isn't that the same thing?) Over the course of a year, I can learn the funky choreography and ripped-jeans style (including the bound-for-a-comback rattail) of ex-New Kid on the Block bad boy Donnie while studying the former TV/pop singer Donny's 100-watt smile. I'll be a body-rockin' pop star with Chiclet teeth that makes Justin Timberlake look like Joey McIntyre (Joey who? Exactly).

Oslo & I. Marley & Me may be about the world's worst dog, but I don't have the world's best dog - or any pet, for that matter - to respond to John Grogan's book. I do however, have a squirrell that joins me when I eat on my back porch. Living in the city, he's so comfortable around humans that he walks right up as if expecting his own Eggo. I named him Oslo because he's urban and a little worldly - I can tell by his eyes that he's been a few places and seen a few things. Follow our hilarious hi-jinks as he: runs up and down a tree! Appears nervous! Gives me rabies! Of course, after I've learned everything Oslo, in his infinite squirrell wisdom, has to teach me, a tear will be shed and inner peace will be realized. I smell a Pulitzer...wait, that's just the rabies talking.

The Da Vinci Solution. I'm breaking the mold and replying to a fiction book. Don't waste your time putting any more cash in Dan Brown's overstuffed, gold-plated pockets. I'll cut right to the chase and offer the answers to whatever this high-fallutin' "code" is so you don't have to actually read his book (I know you don't really want to, you just want to keep up at cocktail parties). Think of it like Cliff Notes by an author who hasn't read the real book, which doesn't need Cliff Notes to begin with. Deal?

All right! I'm off to rock the best-seller charts. Who knew it could be so easy?

(P.S. Dear Dan Brown - I know, based on the sales of your book, that you have a deal with either God or Satan, so if you read this, please don't hurt me. Sincerely, Donny...um...Osmond. Yeah, that's the ticket. Donny Osmond.)

I'd Like to Give a Shout-Out to All My Peeps

It's almost Easter? Seriously? Damn...I feel like I just finished my 10-pound bag of jelly beans from last year's Easter.

Luckily, we have Trish bringing us all together at this week's Roundtable to discuss tradition, plastic eggs, and pictures of other people's kids. Head on over and be sure to leave your favorite, chocolate-bunny-stuffed memory...

You Had Me At "Prosciutto"

Dreams do come true.

Last night, after standing around the Barnes & Noble of Old Orchard, Skokie, IL for two hours, I finally met the chef, the legend, the obsession.

Ladies and gentlemen, I met Giada De Laurentiis.

The star of Food Network's addictively sexy Everyday Italian and author of a cookbook sharing the same name, Miss De Laurentiis is making the rounds promoting her latest tome, Giada's Family Dinners. In case you haven't been following my exploits (here, here, here or here), I was on track to make every single recipe from Everyday Italian before real life and, you know, unemployment got in the way (all that freshly grated parmesan can really put a dent in your wallet).

Joined by my mom, who also bought Giada's latest book, and my sweetie, I was armed with copies of both her books as I paced around the B&N, too distracted to actually read anything I was flipping through. We had been given numbered tickets and were told that we would be called in groups of 50 so as to avoid super-long lines. Velvet ropes had been erected in front of the table where she would sign so anyone wanting to take a picture would have to gather there instead of posing with her behind the table.

As the starting time of 7:30pm neared, we all gathered around the table. A two-story store, many people were lined up against the railing of the second floor, peering over the open space below for an unobstructed view of their cooking idol.

Giada entered to applause and cheering. Arms with digital and cell phone cameras immediately shot up over the crowd and locked into extended position like members of a cult praising their leader. Giada, dressed in her usual form-fitting Anthropologie top, open button-down sweater, jeans and a necklace looked as radiant as always. She seemed genuinely surprised to notice all the people on the second floor, pointing and waving and being a good sport to the calls of "Giada! Over here!" and "One more time! Look up one more time!"

She sat in a stool as her assistant and the B&N employees got the book-signing production into gear. Already lined up, the first fifty made their way down the stairs and handed over their books. Giada was warm and friendly, with her enormous smile of endless sparkling teeth (most adults have, what, 20? Giada has about 300, give or take). She cooed at the babies plopped on the table in front of her and even hugged one man. (Sir, if you are reading this, whatever magic words you used to make that happen - "birthday," "cancer," etc. - please email them to me for the next time Giada visits Chicago.)

The line moved along quickly and before I knew it, my mom and I finally made our way up (we were a few numbers apart, but I thought it would be cute if an Italian mother and her son approached together). I have to say, I was nervous. What do you say? Do you just dole out the usual "I'm a fan" sentiment and be on your way? Do you try to be memorable? Is that even possible when hundreds of people are flashing before her eyes?

My mom immediately extends her hand for shaking, introduces herself, and asks Giada what her name means. Giada explains that it's Italian for "jade," like the stone. My mom and I both comment on how beautiful it is.

Then I mention that I've gotten my Italian family to watch her show (which is only a slight stretch of the truth; I've gotten some of my family to watch). She literally stops signing and looks up at me with the cutest pout/smile, as if to say "Aw, that is so sweet of you." Then I tell her that her Chocolate Ameretti Cake is fantastic, and she again stops signing and practically jumps out of her chair, her hand flittering in excitement. Let me give you the rest of the conversation script-style:

Giada: I know! Isn't that the best? It's so easy.
Me: Oh my God, it's so good.
Giada: I know. It's one of my favorites.
Me: Me, too. I'm converting everyone into fans of it. (again, erring on the side of "truthiness," but still pretty accurate)
Giada: Next you should try my Raspberry Tiramisu. (in her new book)
Me: But I haven't made your Chocolate Tiramisu yet (from her first book) and that's next on my list.
Giada: Well, once you get tired of that...
Me: Is that even possible? (could I be more charming?)
Giada: Well, if by some chance you get tired of it...
Me: Then I'll make the Raspberry Tiramisu. (charming AND cooperative)
Giada: You'll love it.

And now we're best friends.

My mom thanked her for coming to Old Orchard and that was it. We walked out into the surprisingly warm April night, books in tow, and we were on our way. I like to think that we walked the line between generic compliments and the entitled, overly-familiar, overly-intimate attitude that some people took with her. My honey and I took some pics ourselves so hopefully I can upload them soon for your viewing pleasure.

I now have my next culinary assignment, given to me by none other than Giada herself. While it's not quite raspberry season, if Giada tells me to try it, who am I to refuse?

And I'm Drowning Slowly...

The new movie Brick bills itself simply as a "detective" movie, which in and of itself is not that interesting. Luckily, Brick, a low-budget independent movie, skips the black-and-white, men-in-fedoras nostalgia by ways of a truly unique perspective.

It's set in a modern-day California high school.

Now when someone is "taking a powder" from "bulls" with "gates" because he "copped" some "jake," it's being uttered by a nerdy, lanky 17-year-old with glasses instead of a brooding man in a trenchcoat. It's an effective, suspenseful, sometimes downright funny experiment. I can't say I loved the movie, because overall it's a little cold, but I really enjoyed and respected it.

What writer-director Rian Johnson gets right is he goes all the way with his admittedly gimmicky concept. He doesn't just employ the twisting, turning plot points and claustrophobic atmosphere of his influences, he actually puts these cryptic words into the type of characters least likely to say them. It's Dawson's Creek meets The Maltese Falcon.

Sometimes it's difficult to understand the vernacular because it's being mumbled or spoken too quickly; sometimes, even if you do hear it clearly, you have no idea what they're talking about ("yegs"? "Shamus"?). But if you stick with it, you can suspend your disbelief long enough to get really wrapped up in the story.

Brendan's ex-girlfriend, Emily, is in trouble. A loner, Brendan doesn't get involved in other people's business but Emily asked for his help while sobbing over the phone before disappearing altogether. As he tries to track down what happened to her, he gets involved with the football jock, the theater queen, the library nerd, the muscle-bound thug, the druggie burnout, and the clueless vice-principal.

The funny thing is, even with the hyper-dramatic plot points (Brendan's chased by a knife-wielding thug and brought to a drug dealer in the trunk of a car), it still feels like high school. Trying to get invited to the coolest party, managing a Darwinian social environment while trying to actually go to classes or getting ready for the school play, parents oblivious to their children's lives - it's a strange layering of real and surreal. Even the neighborhood's twenty-something drug kingpin - appropriately nicknamed The Pin - still lives in the basement of his parents' place. After Brendan meets him, they adjourn to the kitchen where The Pin's mother brings them milk and cookies.

A minor problem is that Brendan is somewhat of a cipher. Aloof and mysterious to his classmates, he also remains that way to the audience. We know he's clever, tough (good Lord can the boy take a beating...and give one out, too) and truly cares for Emily (and thusly had his heart broken by her), but that's about it. The script is so tightly focused on the story, nothing even remotely irrelevant gets in, such as, say, Brendan's parents, whom we never see, or even his house or bedroom. We do care about him, but emphasizing his very teen-ness would have elevated the discrepancy between his age and his behavior even more. Luckily, as Brendan, Joseph Gordon-Levitt (from the sitcom 3rd Rock Under the Sun and last year's Mysterious Skin) is talented and well-cast, letting us see through the armor teenagers are so good at erecting for themselves.

Oh, and, for the record, I would never take a powder from a bull with a gat because of jake, but I'm just a yeg who doesn't dose to begin with.

Get Your Milk and Cookies...

...and join story time with Lauren at Franco-American in the UK. She's telling us all a special story about immigration (how timely of her). She's taking us back to a different time and a different place, all without our usual Roundtable snarkiness. So grab your glass of milk - or whiskey, as she suggests - read Lauren's story and be sure to leave your own story if you feel like it.

Magically Delicious

While reading Augusten Burrough's essay collection, Magical Thinking, I finished each story feeling like the author was coasting. After the twisted subject and eccentric characters of Running with Scissors (soon to be a movie with Annette Benning and - cringe alert - Gwenyth Paltrow), and the skewed perspective he brought to the ubiquitous rehab memoir with Dry (take that, Frey), the short, fluffy stories of his latest book seemed more like dinner-party anecdotes than essays.

But the more I think about it, how is that so different from his previous work? All three books are quick reads with an intelligent, witty guide who digs just deep enough to make sense of his surroundings (as much as he can, considering the seriously messed up childhood that is the center of Scissors) without wallowing too long on any one point.

More importantly, what's wrong with a collection of dinner-party anecdotes? If that's what you know to expect, each one is exactly what it's supposed to be: original, entertaining and just long enough to keep the buzz going between glasses of Syrah.

He introduces the stories by defining the titular phrase.

Magical Thinking: A schizotypal personality disorder attributing to one's own actions something that had nothing to do with him or her and thus assuming that one has a greater influence over events than is actually the case.

When it comes to exposing this behavior, Burroughs often aims the honesty at himself. Whether he's willing crazy co-workers to die, predicting his imminent appearance on The New York Times best-seller list, or justifying his moderate use of steroids, Burroughs exploits every eccententricity at his disposal.

The results can be hilarious, from his stint as a fourteen-year-old student at the Barbazon School of Modeling (where he mastered the Brooke Shields-splayed-on-the-floor pose) to his description of the opposum that was invading his country home's backyard: "It had a long nose, thin, like a Swedish man's penis." OK, who thinks like that? That's why you read Burroughs - to get those off-the-wall yet strangely accurate (not that I would know in this particular case, mind you) descriptions.

With twenty-seven stories, some quite obviously end up as filler. When the buzz wears off, you might find yourself, as I often did, finishing a story thinking, "Is that it?" But don't think about it too hard. Most of the chapters don't require you to, anyway. Just whip it out on the train or bus to work, and you'll be giggling at your new dinner party companion while everyone else is sulking into their coffee cups and RedEyes.

P.S. On a random note, I was originally going to start this post comparing Burroughs to David Sedaris and call it Nothing Rhymes with Sedaris until I realized Paris rhymes with Sedaris, which made me think of his Francophilic essay collection, Me Talk Pretty One Day, which he also could have titled Sedaris in Paris which is not as funny as his title but c'mon, how often do you get a chance to rhyme your name with the subject of your own book? The closest I can think of for me is Baiocchi in Bangkok-i. Or Baiocchi in Iraq-i. And those both suck.