Is It Serious? I'm Afraid It Is

I stayed up for ages tonight, first fighting with Michael (what else is new?) and then reading excerpts from Rupert Everett's autobiography. I cannot recall ever enjoying a book as quickly as "Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins." I mean, I can slowly sink into an Anne Rice book for days. I get completely, irrevocably immersed, but the scenes that make my heart beat faster and my mind disappear into the words are dispersed between long dreamy passages that serve only to inundate my mind with familiar lush imagery. It's wonderful, but like I said: the good shit's got a price with her. With Rupert Everett, every line has some sort of unique pleasure to it; it's a pun, it's witty, it's sarcastic, it's sad, it's insightful, it's heart-warming, it's self-depricating. You feel like you've been finding a few gold coins here and there for years and now you've found a treasure chest, ushering forth an endless procession of literary golden nuggets. And the best parts, next to the amazing writing, are the juicy details he offers about other celebrities. They don't feel like conventional gossip; they feel like an honest first-hand account of these people. It's like character analysis. He gives you a sense of what it's like to be in their presence, to occupy a space in their world. I adore it. Needless to say, I've already ordered the book.