A Writer's Closet

Welcome to the weird flotsam of a writer's mind . . .

Location: Southern California

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

A Million Words of Crap or A Waste Of A Tree

Normally I can find something to like about any book I read (I read Ivanhoe, for crying out loud) but I'm on page 80 of James Frey's A Million Little Pieces and that's as far as I'm going. It's boring me to death. He just had two root canals without anesthesia and I was annoyed with his whining. I can't take it anymore. I gave it the bum's rush and started Marley and Me. I'm on page ten and I've already laughed, cried and been hooked. My kind of book. I won't bother with Frey again.

I feel bad for Dick Cheney. Hunting buddies shoot each other all the time, but this poor schlep has to have it plastered on Leno and Letterman with comments like, "After shooting a lawyer, Cheney's approval rating went up 92%!" The Smoking Gun has the best headline that would only work in print, "See Dick. Run!" You know them over there, Mr. Frey's nemesis.


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