OK, I may be addicted. I was in bed, drifting toward dreamland when I suddenly realized I hadn't posted anything in my blog today. Regret soon turned to remorse which was quickly followed by resolve. I MUST blog! The blogosphere is waiting. My public! (You are there, right?)
Honestly, I wasn't that close to REM anyway. I kept churning over a few recently devoured chapters of I am not myself these days, a memoir by Josh Kilmer-Purcell. As described by the author, it's simply your typical "boy-meets-boy-dressed-as-girl-who-accessorizes-with-goldfish love story." Only with booze and crack. What's not to love about that story line?
I bought it for four lovely reasons:
- I love the title.
- I love the cute photo of a goldfish on the cover.
- I love any male author brave enough to hyphenate his last name.
- I LOVE non-fiction.
I mean, do we really need fiction? Isn't FOX News enough? As for me, I want the truth, the whole truth -- especially the really seedy and personal parts. In fact, let's skip the stage setting and cut right to the chase. In Cold Blood, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, Running with Scissors ... does it get any better than that? I think not.
Sure, sometimes I doubt the veracity of the juiciest nonfiction novels, but then I think about the inconsistencies of my own life experience. At this very moment, for example, I'm propped up in bed looking at a painting of a little white-steepled wood frame church in the California redwoods. Hung just above my black JVC boom box, it inspires many pleasant childhood memories -- a fuzzy mixture of smiling Sunday School teachers, Baptist hymn singing, cherry Kool-Aid and construction paper art. Nearby, however, are books on new age philosophy, gay humor and liberal politics; a wood carving of an elephant I bought in a Hindu temple; and some Anthony Robbins CDs promising to deliver "Personal Power" to listeners. I'm not sure whether being a Southern Baptist seminary graduate, former newspaper reporter, current corporate hack, occasional bar fly and the owner of a Noam Chomsky DVD makes me well rounded or borderline psychotic. But, oh, the stories I could tell.
Stay tuned.
