This summer’s fluff beach reading includes British comedian/ actor/ drug addict Russell Brand’s autobiography, My Booky Wook.
It’s a terrible title and he admits as much in the forward. I think it’s derived from Cockney slang, but I could be wrong. In the U.S. printing of the book, he helpfully includes loads of footnotes that explain British cultural references for us clueless American readers. It just came out in paperback, which is the only way I roll. It’s a fun read and surprisingly literate. Take a look at this well-constructed paragraph:
My relationship with Topsy quickly grew very intense. Perhaps because she was a problem dog, we had more in common than I’d initially realized. I sometimes cuddled her too hard so that she would yelp. “Here, have some of my painful love,” my febrile embrace would tell her. “It is constrictive and controlling and painful, like all love should be.” In later life, I have come to realize that any expression of love which ends in a yelp probably requires modification.
Isn’t that great?! I think so. And there’s plenty more where that came from. I’m a big fan of his work although I think his remake of Arthur with Helen Mirren and Jennifer Garner is ill-conceived. But it’s a perfect book when your toes are buried in the sand.
- Peeled the wallpaper off the wall while sitting on the toilet (bad) at my mother-in-law’s house (worse).
- Put a handful of pennies and nickles in her mouth. Gross.
- Ate sand at the beach. Why? “Because I like it.” WTF!? Who in their right mind would try to consume the Jersey Shore?!
For new readers, this is the same demon who cut our curtains with a pair of scissors last year. What should I do?! 8-Year Old never did stuff like this. Can I put her on medication if she didn’t really need it from a medical standpoint? It’s second child syndrome. I hope.