The San Francisco Chronicle asked me to write up a brief capsule review of Joshua Cody’s surprisingly delightful, harrowing, and sexy memoir, [sic]. I say surprising because for the last several years most of the memoirs I’ve read have been dull, uninspired tracts that seem to be not much more than vanity projects. Not so with [sic]. Cody does make himself look pretty cool at times – I know that I’ve never managed to have nights like his here in NYC, and his adventures take place when he busy trying to avoid dying from cancer –  but on balance the book offers an artful, stylish exploration of literature, sex, music, and death. What more could you ask for?

I’d quote from the capsule review, but it’s only about three paragraphs. Check it out here.


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