Oh, Manchester, So Much To Answer For

As I've said, I've been doing a lot of reading this week. Foremost has been Dry, the new memoir by Augusten Burroughs. Burroughs, you need to understand, is one. Great. Fucking. Writer. His prose hits you, but it feels like a kiss - and it's wickedly funny, to boot. Running with Scissors (a memoir of his childhood spent with his crazy mother's psychiatrist's family, whom included a 33-year-old pedophile who became Burroughs' first lover - when he was 13) was great; I think Dry is even better, largely because the material he discusses in Dry is a lot more - relatable? [Is that even a word?] This book is supposedly about Burroughs' struggles (or lack thereof) with drinking, and his subsequent time in rehab and AA, but it covers so much more, particularly love and AIDS (and advertising). There's a depth here you don't typically find in "humorous" memoir; the laughs and pain come in equal doses. Augusten Burroughs is utterly sensational.

And, as it happens, he's also really hot.