when i was little i fell in love with john malkovich in dangerous liaisons.
i knew that when i grew up i wanted to be with a man who wore crushed velvet and lace cuffs and fancy shoes and was well-spoken and soulless. and they told me i would never find a straight man who dressed like that. and to all of them i now say HA!! this one is mostly straight... i did not realize that a man who calls himself a dandy and wears sequins and nail polish would spend quite so much time with his own feces: smearing, eating, prying out with a spoon... this book is not exclusively about poop, but i think the point is important: fancy boys can still have the most squalid of squalor going on behind closed doors. of his plagiarism i am not going to complain - he unabashedly and gleefully calls attention to it himself. he's like this gaudy magpie who writes almost entirely in epigrams; it is hyperbolic and indulgent and overwrought and overwritten and purple purple purple... but somehow it works. it's a romping sort of book that is wholly superficial but entirely in keeping with his personality. it's a fun read that doesn't really go anywhere or do anything.... like its author. but there's sex and drugs and crucifixion, and some actually touching bits at the end. and poop. did i mention poop?