This morning I brought with me to work (YES, sweet Jesus, I have WORK today!) a new book. Yesterday I finished, I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell, by Tucker Max. Oh my. Max is an absolute fuck and makes no excuses for it. He's evil and sadistic and hilarious. The book is a ten-car pile up; you shouldn't look, but you just have to. You shouldn't read it, but you just have to. You find yourself laughing at his escapades that are typically at the expense of someones dignity, and that's when you know you have resereved a seat in hell right next to him.
Anyhow, the new book is Slouching Towards Bethlehem, by Joan Didion. I recently read her newest book titled, The Year of Magical Thinking. Outstanding. Bethlehem was first published in the sixties, and is a compilation of her essays. My friend in Birmingham suggested it to me. In the preface to the text, she says:
"That is one last thing to remember: writers are always selling somebody out."
Isn't it the truth?