Why can't I just read trashy books? Perhaps a thriller or some sci-fi -- a Phil McGraw self-help or some wonderfully treacly Pat Conroy? How come every time I go to the library/bookstore I walk away with a "Classic Piece of Literature" or a biography of Lincoln? Just who do I think I am? How can someone who watched three hours of Rock Star: INXS last night feel like trashy books are a waste of his time?

Nothing is more a waste of my time than forcing my way through books I don't really want to read. It's been a lifelong problem. I've started (but not finished) countless books: This Side of Paradise, Moby-Dick, Swann's Way... it's a long list. I'd attempt to complete it, but then I'd just be re-confirming (to myself) my dilettante credentials, since I'd just be flashing names to try to impress you with my attempts at trying to impress myself.

I went to the library last week because I missed reading for pleasure. It's one of the first things that gets sacrificed when I get really busy. But instead of going in the Harry Potter direction, I emerged with The Adventures of Augie March. Which is actually very readable and enjoyable; yet it's also a book that makes me think about how our characters are formed and how hard (or impossible) it is for people to change. And how that's what ultimately determines what becomes of us.

And so I put it down and turn on Kill Reality. Which Drew thinks is depressingly awful (which is true). But at least I can be depressed by something that's depressing because it's so bad, instead of depressing because it's so true.