So far, I'm not loving David Sedaris' Me Talk Pretty One Day.
It's for my book club, and I often have tastes differing from those of my pals, but I'd heard so many good things about the book that I'm sort of disappointed that I didn't like it more. Admittedly the fact that he was a crystal meth-addicted conceptual artist when he was my age does put my life into pleasant perspective.
I realize that for the Volvo-driving, NPR-listening, Starbucks guzzlers among my pals, David Sedaris is some sort of great wit, but my opinion is that the world already has one Andy Rooney.
Do we really need another?
Who is admittedly only 100 pages in. Maybe it will improve.