As with Eggers, I was at first excited when I noticed a new hot author who writes in the same silly, first person style that I do. /helvetica/ According to the book jacket, he's the wittiest author/personality since whoever. I thought his writing was pretty clever and definitely less annoying than the usual overly precious New Yorker rot. /rockwell/ His details and perception are accurate enough. I mean I really was there and shit, but after about six pages, it just got old. /litterbox icg/ I mean he complains about being in situations that he's, like, put himself into, like a movie reviewer who gets all worked up because he just saw Jurassic Park VI, and to everyone's amazement, it sucked. You don't see me complaining how I can't drink this godawful Bacardi Silver, do you? I mean you think I want people to know I bought a six pack of Bacardi Silver? /nimrod/ That's almost like buying a six pack of Zima, which I swear I did not do. Anyway, in the four pages I read, Rakoff just sort of whines a lot and rubs funny hotel soap on himself as we leap from one solipsistic thought to the next. It's like Woody Allen but without the punchline. Satyricon without the satire. Wait, I'm notó /verdana/
Rolling Stone: What is your friegnin' problem? Do you just feel like you have to attack every new author that comes along? I mean, you didn't even read it.
ColdBacon: When do I meet Peter Travers?
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