Must dash to some dumbfuck conference today. So I’m cheating and directing you to a Brazilian Girls review I wrote elsewhere. Yeah, as if the people who read this blog lack anything substantive to read and their mornings are going to be ruined without a minimum of 300 words that come out of my head.
To make up for the awesomeness of the latest Brazilian Girls album in the great equilibriating pissing competition between yin and yang that is life, I’m reading a book I fear may be crap. End of the Line, by Barry C. Lynn. I’m sorry, if I want emotion from my books I’ll read a novel with first person narration written by someone with a far better style, or possibly I'll read Steiglitz. The subject, the frailty of our globalized economy, is sober enough but the delivery is whiny and ridiculously emotive – I keep expecting him to write phrases like “curse that naughty old Willie Clinton and his sneaky ways”.
I’ll give it the benefit of the doubt and finish it, though, if nothing else it’ll teach me not to get my book reccomendations from the Wall Street Journal. Viva the Economist Books & Arts section! And yes, the Guardian. The Guardian also reccommends good books. Serious.